Unnatural
by GenericUsername01
Summary: What if France and England never found America and Canada? Why would they even look, when there were personifications of all the colonies that made them up? Canada and America face witch trials, the Donner Party, mind-splitting wars, malicious humans, and every type of death imaginable without ever understanding why this is happening to them. All they know is they are unnatural.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This fic is rated M solely for violence/ death. Additional warnings are given on a chapter by chapter basis, but in general, expect death, violence, depiction of mental illness, injury, and there's a whole big thing on the Donner Party, so cannibalism. The first chapter is awkward, but it gets better.

* * *

Finland sat on the edge of the riverbank, wincing in pain from the bruises and cuts covering his body under his clothes. Holland had managed to hit him solidly on the head during the fight, and a goose-egg had formed there, making his brain feel like it was throbbing. The battle had ended hours ago, but his wounds had only scabbed over and the pounding knot on his head only seemed to worsen. One of the downsides to fighting a fellow nation: the wounds they inflicted took almost as long to heal as they would on a human. Almost.

He was on the brink of tears, but it wasn't because of the pain. The pain was nothing to him. The real damage done, the hardest blow of the fight, had been having his hopes and dreams dashed. He and Sweden had had their hearts set on crafting the perfect vacation home in the new world. But Holland had barged in and declared the house was his from now on. That's when thing got violent.

In the end, he and Sweden had lost. Their lovely new house that they had worked so hard on was gone and New Sweden was no more. He choked back sobs at the lost dream and let a few tears run down his face.

"Hey, Finland, what's the matter?" France called, traipsing through the woods to come stand in front of him in the shallow stream.

"Did you trip over nothing again and now you're making a grand scene?" England had followed not far behind, and made little to no effort to conceal his patronizing tone at the sight of Finland crying. The English and their stiff upper lip. What was so wrong with crying? It's just as normal an expression as smiling. Would he look down on someone for smiling too much, as well?

Scratch that. He actually might. He would call it frivolous and chalk it up as foolish nonsense. A stiff upper lip in every sense, not even bending to crack a smile.

Finland could only imagine what was going on in that poor man's head.

"No!" he snapped, his voice cracking. "S-sweden and I were just trying to build a holiday home in America. But Holland came and took all of it!"

France and England's expressions were wiped clear, careful masks of impassivity snapping into place. It wouldn't do to look too excited.

"Oh, that must've been bad…" England trailed off.

"No, really, must've been rough on you," France said tonelessly.

"It's not just that!" Finland said with passion.

"A strange boy appeared when we were there, and he wasn't from the neighboring villages… We were a day away from the nearest town," he said. "I'm just worried how he'll do if Holland takes care of him."

"A boy? He came out from that stupidly huge wilderness by himself?"

"Yes, yes he did! So we thought it was a bit strange-"

"Hey, wait a minute!" France interjected. "Did the child pop up around you a- Check it out I caught a fish!"

"No one cares, Francis."

"About you, anyway."

"Hey! Do you-"

Finland shook his head as the two's arguing grew in volume. He could snap them to pieces in seconds if he so wished. They seemed to be forgetting that. But he didn't feel like destroying anyone today. He was tired and upset and hurt and all he wanted to do at this point was go home. Besides, you should never destroy someone when you are sad. You would not get to enjoy it properly, and chances are, it would find some way of coming back to bite you.

"Aren't you going to come help me search for the little boy?" he shouted over them.

"No. It's just a human," England said, and France smacked him upside the head.

"What mon ami means to say is, if the boy managed to make it in the wilderness up until now, then I'm sure he'll continue to be fine. Humans are ever so versatile and should adapt quickly."

"We'll of course alert the local authorities to keep a watch out for him."

"Alright," he said. "I just want to make sure someone who's staying in the new world is going to take care of him."

"Do not worry," France said. "If he shows up again, I will be sure to give him a home and a place in one of my villages."

"As will I."

Finland eyed them suspiciously before nodding, gathering himself, and heading off.

"Never said I would actually go and seek the kid out myself," England said quietly after he had gone.

His companion laughed. "Let humans handle their own individuals, that's what I always say. Why should one single human cause us trouble when we need to be responsible for thousands?"


	2. Chapter 2

Canada stared through the window at the huge pot of stew cooling on the table inside. His freezing cold tiptoes pushed him just high enough to grip the windowsill to see.

The people who owned this house were farmers with ten or so indentured servants, people who signed away a few years of free labor in return for passage into the colonies. During this time, it was common for richer immigrants to pay the way for poorer people to travel and live with them, and in return they would have people to work their land for them whom they didn't have to pay, sometimes for more than a decade.

He licked his chapped lips hungrily. There was enough stew to feed a dozen hardworking ranchers. He could see the steam coming off the hot vegetables and broth, and was reminded of how brutally cold he was in the fall harvest season. Surely one little cup of soup wouldn't be missed. Canada was small. He didn't need much.

He slunk away from the window, creeping along towards the front door. He froze when an icy leaf crunched loudly under his foot. Panic gripped his chest and his heart thudded, the only sound not coming from the fields.

Several minutes later, he tried moving again. He glided over the land silently, as noiseless as a still wind. Sure enough, the door was unlocked. There was no blacksmith anywhere in this province yet, so metal locks were a European luxury quickly being forgotten. Sending away to have metalware imported was massively expensive and reserved only for absolute necessities. A lock was not one of those necessities, as it could just as easily be replaced with a strong leather strap on the inside, in a certain arrangement so that it could also be opened by those who knew how from the outside. But these people were new, relatively. Their neighbors hadn't taught them how to make a leather lock yet.

Canada pushed the door in carefully, hoping against hope it wouldn't creak. His soft feet padded across the floorboards, too small and light to make a sound. He started moving faster, gaining confidence. No one was going to catch him. He was too quiet, too smart, too good at this to be heard.

He climbed up onto the the table and stirred the ladle in the huge pot, making fresh steam rise off of it and warm his face. He pulled the ladle out and took a sip. The hot stew filled his stomach with warmth. Even just this, just this one sip, was so much better and more filling than anything he had had in months. Living off berries and stolen crops was nothing compared to real, freshly made stew.

"You're a hungry little guy, aren't you?" a soft French voice asked from behind him.

He jerked and dropped the ladle, scrambling to get down from the table.

The girl laughed and scooped him up. She was in her late teens and wearing a dress that no doubt would be considered plain in her native France, but was extravagant for a colonial farmgirl. Definitely not an indentured servant. She must be the owner's daughter.

"What's your name, little one?" she smiled goodnaturedly.

Canada shrugged as much as he could in her arms. "I don't know. No one ever told me."

"What? You don't have a name?" she asked. "Well, we're gonna have to fix that. But first let's get some soup in you to warm you up. I swear, your skin is like ice!"

She set out two delicate porcelain bowls and spoons and served some stew into them. Canada sat across the table from her as the girl laid out an immaculate place setting and prayed over it. He mimicked her as best he could, keeping one eye open during the prayer so as to follow her lead.

"Now what's this about not having a name, huh? Didn't your parents ever give you one?"

"I don't think I have parents."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone has parents. Even the smallest and scruffiest of little thieves."

"But I didn't," Canada said.

The girl got a sad look in her eyes. "Whoever they were they didn't deserve you anyway. That just means that you get to choose your own name. That's much more fun anyway. So! What do you want your name to be?"

"I don't know. I don't know any names. What would be a good one?"

She inspected him closely, cocking her head to the side. "How about..." she trailed off, thinking. Then her eyes lit up. "Mathieu."

"Mathieu," he said, trying out the sound.

"Yeah, Mathieu! It suits you," she nodded happily.

Mathieu giggled. "I like it."

* * *

Later that evening, a crowd of men burst into the dining room, talking boisterously in French. They were all served and seated, then, amazingly, hushed while their boss prayed over the meal. Mathieu watched unseen from a small alcove where the girl had told him to wait.

The prayer ended and the workers dug in to their food. Everyone was seated at the same table; owners, family, farmhands, everyone but the local thief.

The girl cleared her throat and addressed the man who had prayed. "Papa, today I found a little boy no more than three wandering about our property. His parents must have abandoned him, so I brought him in and gave him stew. He didn't even know his own name at first, his parents were so negligent. I was wondering if maybe he could perhaps stay with us, just for a little while until we can find someone to take him in permanently."

The table was silent as everyone looked to the older man who was clearly in charge. "Where is this boy now, Colette?" he asked slowly.

The girl leapt from her seat and got Mathieu out from around the corner, leading him by the hand and placing him in her lap once she sat back down. Earlier she had ruffled his wild curls to look even messier and smeared even more dirt on his face and torn clothes so he would look more pitiable. She had then very sternly told him to agree with everything she said, even if it wasn't 100% true. _Especially_ if it wasn't 100% true.

There was a moment of stillness as they all took in the sight of him, then a heated debate flared up. Mathieu couldn't possibly follow it, only picking out a few words and phrases at a time. "Christian duty", "another mouth to feed", "disease", "orphan", "winter season", et cetera.

None of the adult men said anything, save the one, allowing only the owner's family to discuss it. Mathieu now noticed that the girl had two siblings: a girl a little older than him, and a boy somewhere between eleven and fourteen. None of them seemed particularly against having him stay; more like they just wanted to debate if that was really the best option for him before officially deciding.

They never actually said what they decided, and it wasn't clear when, but next thing he knew Mathieu was being rushed upstairs and scrubbed in a small basin full of suds.

"Your hair is so curly!" the mother exclaimed, running her fingers through the bubbly, tangled mess. "Oh—oh, there are leaves in it."

She picked a withered brown leaf out from deep in his hair. "That's strange, these don't grow around here," she murmured. "Where have you been, little one?"

Mathieu just laughed and blew soap bubbles up at the large woman.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter's so bad, I'm sorry. But it's necessary for later on.**

America didn't know much. But from watching the villages, he had picked up a few things. One was that his age wouldn't prevent him from getting at least a swat on the behind for acting up. Another was that adults gave free stuff to kids they lived with and kids they thought were good.

Stealing was bad, but adults giving you things of their own free will meant you were good.

He walked into the store in the "big" town, which prided itself on having an actual street and a man who served as barber, doctor, and dentist all rolled into one. The building America was in was a small furniture store, filled with finely crafted wooden tables and chairs and even a bed.

He tugged on an elderly man's pants to get his attention. "'Scuse me, sir."

"Hm, yes? What is it? Oh hello there. Why, you're just a little slip of a thing, aren't you?" he smiled.

America looked up at him with eyes opened wide. "I- I can't find my parents… And, and, and I'm really hungry and scared," his voice was quiet and choked on the last word. Keeping his eyes open so big, so innocently, had made the air sting them and tears spilled over down his cheeks.

The old man gave a slight gasp and lifted him up into a gentle hug immediately. "Sergio! Make yourself useful and go get a blanket and some bread. Immediately!" he called to his apprentice across the store. The lanky teen disappeared up the stairs to the apartment above.

America smiled into the man's chest. This one was going to be so easy.

* * *

America's short legs pumped as hard as they could, and he clutched the sack to this chest like it meant his life. Even as small as he was, his strength let him put slow but sure distance between himself and the irate carpenter.

He ran out past the buildings and then the fields, ducking into the cover of the woods. The carpenter's usually gentle voice screeched after him.

"You conniving thief! Who put you up to this, huh?! What sick person has their kid steal for them?! You no-good scoundrel, you'll never amount to nothing! You here me? Nothing!"

America turned back to stick out his tongue at him before disappearing from view behind the leaves.

He slowed down once almost immediately. The apprentice wouldn't be coming after him. He had made sure it was Sergio's day off when he made his move. Even if the old man were fit enough to run after him, he would never be able to track him through the woods. A forest is the most impossibly complicated maze on earth, and no human could ever know it fully. A permanently changing labyrinth. The perfect hiding place.

His camp was a clearing with a small fire pit in the center, a blanket to the side, and the crumbs of past meals scattered on the ground. He had been running low on food. He wasn't anymore.

He sat criss-cross applesauce on the blanket and sat the bag down next to him. It had previously been a potato sack that was almost thrown away, but he had snatched it just before Sergio could throw it away. He had bided his time until the house was empty for a few hours, then gone down to the pantry and stuffed as much food as he could into the sack as fast as he could.

America had taken a deep breath, bracing himself, and then ran down the stairs, across the store, and out the door. The carpenter who had taken him in only a week before realized what had happened, or at least he thought he did, and chased him as far as the edge of town before giving up.

The old man had never seen it coming. No one ever did. This was the fourth time he had tricked people in this way. People knew a three year old could lie, of course, deep down, but they assumed it was always about broken vases or a bitten neighbor child at worst, and of course as grown-ups they could always see through it clear as day. Lying was something you learned slowly with age, they thought. In reality you learned it with experience. And despite his toddler-like mind and body, America had been lying for a good ten years now, and had the same experience as someone at the height of their trouble-making years.

He opened the bag and began nibbling on a soft wedge of cheese. As soon as he was rested, he would pack up his few belongings and go find another village with kind and generous people.

A dog skirted the edge of the clearing, sniffing cautiously. America froze. The dog came slowly closer, and he broke off a bite of cheese and held it out.

The dog inspected the treat carefully before scarfing it down, licking almost all of America's fingers in the process. He laughed and rubbed the dog's head.

He had made his very first friend.


	4. Chapter 4

Mathieu was a very lucky kid.

Mathieu had been coming down with something when his new family, the Belleroses, had adopted him. It had been too slight and early on for him to notice, but soon he was bedridden and shaking with fever. It was unsurprising; he had lived in the wilderness for years and at any given moment half the colonies were in the middle of one epidemic or other.

His mother, who normally was never seen without a smile, had pursed her lips for a month and wouldn't stop checking in on him in the sick room. She piled every spare blanket in the house on him but he just couldn't stop shivering. Whenever he opened his eyes (and was lucid enough to remember), she was always there, worry on her face.

"Here, drink," she helped him sit up and put a ladle to his lips. "The stream's not very fast, but no one has gotten sick from it yet. I hope it helps some."

Mathieu felt a vague sense of awe that anyone could care so much about him, someone they just met. Someone who had stolen from them, not that she knew about that. Colette hadn't thought it would go over well and told him not to mention that.

Someone who had stolen from them and lied about it. The awe was replaced with guilt. But that disappeared quickly too; his feverish brain was too strained and young to deal with such complicated things right now.

"Are you too hot? Too cold? Could you handle food?" she asked.

"'M fine, thanks," he blinked sleepily and settled back under the covers.

That was the first time she had pursed her lips in worry at him.

* * *

Within a week, Colette's youngest sibling, the girl about Mathieu's age, had joined him in the sick room. Her father set up a second cot and pulled off half the blankets from on top of Mathieu to keep his daughter warm.

The girl's name was Francine, and she never talked, only coughed. She wasn't as bad off as he was, though. She could at least sit up for a while without anybody's help.

The mother would loiter at the doorway, desperate to help the kids, but reluctant to catch the disease herself. Hundreds of people had Scarlet Fever. Hundreds of people were dead and dying. She had a husband and two other children to think of; she really shouldn't risk it if the kids were doomed to die either way.

In the end, she couldn't resist, and bustled into the room, cooing encouragement and tucking blankets tighter. She gave forehead kisses, told stories, sang lullabies, anything she could to lighten the mood. Mathieu noticed she had a wrinkle between her eyebrows that hadn't been there before.

A few days after Francine joined him, he started sleeping so much he was hardly awake long enough to take a sip of water and use the chamber pot. Then one day he just stopped waking up altogether.

When he finally awoke, it was the middle of the day. The sun was lighting up and warming the room through the window. Mathieu snuggled deeper into the blankets' warmth.

Something was odd. The room was silent. It was never exactly loud in the repurposed attic, but this was different. Deeper. More intense.

He peeked enough of his head out to see. The room was empty. Francine's cot was gone and the area where it had been was scrubbed clean so thoroughly it was like nothing had ever been there. The deafening silence was from the constant, steady noise of her cough being gone.

"Mathieu!" Francine's mother took a step back from the door in shock. "You're awake! But… But that's impossible!"

He didn't really have anything to say to that, but he did not have to come up with a reply after all. The plump woman leaned back into the hall and called for everyone else to hurry in.

Soon the entire household had crowded into the attic to exclaim and ask questions, with a few exceptions. Colette and Francine's brother was the most noticeable. He said nothing. His face churned with too many alternating emotions to tell what he was thinking.

"Where's Francine?" Mathieu asked while coughing into his hand. At once everyone stopped talking.

"She's dead," her brother said. He lifted his head and stared directly at Mathieu. Colette swatted his arm for his bluntness.

"You were very lucky, Mathieu, we didn't think you would make it. Francine was not so lucky."

That had not been entirely true, as he would later find out. He had been in a coma for nearly a month. Francine died painfully during that time, tears running down her small face as she coughed and hacked her last breath. Her parents had held her, her mother shushing and wiping tears and a runny nose while her father had rocked her gently. They had forbid anyone else from entering the room, even their other children just to say goodbye, so that hopefully the disease wouldn't spread.

But spread it did. Mr. Bellerose soon started coughing too, the same sound his daughter had made only days earlier. He was a strong, active man though, and refused to let the Scarlet Fever take him down. But Scarlet Fever is relentless. It never goes away without taking something with it. It took Francine's life. And it took her father's sight.

They had not ever dreamed Mathieu would survive it. He was young, with no immunity, and had been living outside in the cold for who knows how long. When he fell asleep and couldn't wake up, they knew it meant he never would.

One night, his heart stopped beating. His burning skin began to cool. His chest no longer rose and fell with shallow breaths. He was completely still. Scarlet Fever had stolen one more life. Just when Mrs. Bellerose had thought she had cried every tear that she could, she saw the dead little boy and cried some more.

In the morning, she had come to move the body, the too-small body just like she had done only two weeks earlier with her daughter. But when she came in, the dead child was sitting up in bed, blinking sleepy eyes and asking about Francine.

Soon the whole household was talking about the miracle kid who woke up from a coma. Mrs. Bellerose must have been wrong. Her heartbroken eyes had not been able to see the subtle breath, her mourning ears had not heard the thready heartbeat.

She had been sure. She had checked five times. But people only came back to life in the Bible; that didn't happen to every little kid who happened to get sick. She must have deluded herself, like they said. He was just a very lucky kid.

So lucky. Mathieu didn't have one single disability. The Scarlet Fever had stolen nothing but time from him. Not only had he lived, but he had come out on the other side completely unscathed. Unharmed. The ferocious, unbeatable disease that was sweeping through all the colonies and killing thousands had not been able to do him any lasting damage. It truly was miraculous.

He was just so very, very lucky.

* * *

Mathieu had been with the Belleroses for two years now and considered them family. Colette had decided that he was her responsibility, since she was the one who persuaded them to take him in. She had also decided he was unnatural. She had brought something inhuman into her home and now it was her job to make sure no one got hurt because of it.

The workers were digging a well finally, and Mathieu had asked so hopefully if he could be the one to lower the canary one day.

"Sure, I don't see why not," her father had said. Mathieu squealed and clapped his hands excitedly.

So the next day, he went out and gradually let down the rope with the cage on it into the well. Colette watched him like a hawk. His face was serious and concentrated, careful not to drop the rope and risk hurting the little bird inside.

After a few seconds, the canary gave a few musical chirps. The workers started crawling down into the half-finished well. If the air was good enough for a canary, then it was good enough for them.

"Can I do that again?!" Mathieu turned to his father, eyes hopeful. The older man smiled, lines creasing his face as he did so.

"Of course, little buddy. You can do it every day if you want," he said. If he liked working with the bird so much, maybe when Mathieu was older he would give him more tasks with the larger animals. It could never hurt to have another helping hand around.

Colette went out with him every morning before the sun rose to lower the canary. She had never had to wake up so early back in France, she thought bitterly. Normally, a girl of her age and status would be married by now. Instead, here she was, one and twenty years old and living on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, Canada. Every day she woke up and discreetly babysat her youngest brother instead of going out to parties and courting lovers. Not that there was anyone around here to court.

But she didn't blame her brother. She couldn't. It wasn't his fault he was… whatever he was. And Mathieu was a sweet boy, he really was. In the past two years she had grown to love him. Everyone had.

She pulled on her worn, mud-stained boots that had once been so fine and followed her brother outside. He was talking fast and tripping over his words, waving his hands around in big gestures.

"And so then Papa said we were going to have vesni—veninis—va…"

"Venison?" Colette suggested.

"Yeah!" he grinned. "Why aren't they planting tobacco?"

"The planters?" she looked over to the fields they were walking past. "Because tomatoes grow better here."

"Not this year."

She gave a tittering, nervous laugh. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't know that. Besides, we really need this crop to make a lot of money, given how badly the last couple of years have gone."

"But I'm right. You know that."

"Don't ever repeat what you just said, Mathieu," she warned. "The crops will do fine this year. Tomatoes always do well here. Well, they do normally, and Father says things are sure to turn up this year. The weather has been just splendid so far."

So Mathieu fell silent. He had been doing that a lot lately. Colette had taken to shushing him whenever he said something too odd, too knowing. For someone so young, he sure spoke a lot more maturely. He always gave the impression of being much older than he looked, despite his trouble with big words and 'r's.

When they got to the building site, Mathieu ran over to the bird cage and stroked the canary inside with his finger, cooing softly to it. Colette set the kerosene lamp she had used to guide them down by the hole. Light shone down into it until the depth was too great and the shadows refused to disappear.

She wandered fifty or so feet away and started picking long-stemmed daisies to make into chains. It was the lame excuse she had given her brother for why she followed him out here every morning. She knew he had to be at least five or six by now, despite not having really grown since coming here, and soon she would need to come up with something better. She had to have made at least a hundred daisy chains by now.

Meanwhile, Mathieu was creeping closer to the edge of the well. He had lowered the canary in five minutes ago and it had yet to chirp. He gave the rope a slight tug, jolting the unseen cage. Maybe the bird had fallen asleep.

"Little bird," he called. "Little bird, you need to wake up. You need to chirp so I can go tell my Papa and they can keep digging. It's very important, so you have to wake up."

He took a step closer to see better. His foot knocked over the lantern, sending it toppling to the bottom of the well. A few distant sparks of light fizzled where the steel lantern grazed sharp rocks. Suddenly, a wall of fire was rising up the well in a massive explosion. The fireball rose into the clearing as tall as a tree. It engulfed all the ground near it, but the dewy grass didn't catch fire. Mathieu was completely swallowed up by flames in less than a second.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: America and Canada's timelines have been moving at different speeds, sorry if this was confusing. They're going to even out soon.**

* * *

15 years had passed, and America was an experienced thief who no one ever suspected because he looked five. He didn't know why he was aging so slowly. He didn't really wonder too much about it. He had a superpower. He might never know why. As long as it continued to benefit him, he didn't care.

He sidled up to his friend Edward, his old mutt of a dog following loyally behind. It was always helpful to have someone who knew the place on your side in a new town. And he had found it was remarkably easy for him to make friends.

"Hi Eddie!" he greeted cheerfully. "Got any new books for me?"

"Sorry, kid. Not today." Edward was nine, and he was dutifully teaching him how to read. America had been meaning to learn for some time now, and Eddie was willing to teach. He mostly did it because if his father knew he was loaning out his fine collection of classics to a thieving street urchin, he would have a stroke. Eddie also taught him how to write, using a stick to scrawl out words in the dirt. He was a patient teacher through all his younger friend's spelling mistakes. He kept leaving out 'u's and 'e's.

"Tell you what," he said. "You get another book once you finally tell me what your name is."

America squawked. "That's not fair!"

"Yes it is. You give me information, I give you information. It's a perfect deal, one of the best you could ever get. You're actually ripping me off, since I've let you borrow several books before this, and a book is a whole lot more information than a name. I'm only asking for two or three words in return for thousands."

"I told you, I don't have a name!"

"And I told you that was total bull."

"But I'm telling the truth! I never had any parents. My first memory was waking up in the forest and feeling lost. I walked all over and used what I could to get by. That's all I know."

"Well, then you're an idiot."

"Which could be fixed for the low, low price of free if you just kept teaching me to read."

"Sorry, kid. But nothing is free. That'll cost you one name."

"And stop calling me kid."

Eddie laughed incredulously. "Then give me something else to call you."

America scowled and stuck out his lower lip in a pout. If he had been aware of any possible name Eddie could call him by, he would have said so. But he honestly had never been called anything but 'scoundrel', 'delinquent', 'jerk', and, of course, 'kid'.

"Alright. My name is John… -ny Appleseed. My name is Johnny Appleseed," he said.

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Tell me, how did you get a surname like Appleseed? I don't think I've heard that name before. Anywhere. At all. Almost sounds like you just said the first thing that popped into your head."

"It's a long story."

"I've got time."

America glared at him. "Fine," he drawled. "Just let me think for a second."

"You are literally just making things up now. I know that's not your real name," Eddie said.

"No, it is too my real name. It's just that my travels were very exvent—etensis—ex…"

"Extensive?"

"Yeah! My travels were very extensive, and so sometimes it takes me a while to remember a specific story," he explained. "I got my name because I walked across the entire New World with only a bag of apple seeds and a pot on my head to cook with. Everywhere I went, I would plant forests of apple trees and then move on and plant more trees."

"That is the dumbest, most obvious lie I have ever heard in my life," he said. "In. My. Life."

"What do you know, anyway," he glowered. "I'm the reason the New World has apple trees."

"Sure you are, Mr. Appleseed," Eddie said. "I still expect an actual name if you want to read any more of those books."

America frowned. "That's not _fair!_ " he said, punching the support beam of a nearby porch roof on a storefront. The beam broke away and came crashing down on the shoulder of a soldier. The man crumpled, a dark wetness spreading on his already red uniform.

Two of his fellow soldiers heaved the beam off and started tending to him. The man was in obvious pain and trying hard not to scream.

"He's broken his collarbone!" one of them shouted. The fourth soldier whipped his head over to the source of the accident, his brown ponytail falling over his shoulder. He started storming over to the boys.

"How did you do that," Edward whispered.

"The… The beam must have been loose," America suggested. How _had_ he done that?

His dog growled as the man drew closer. America knelt down and put his arms around him, shushing quietly.

"Which one of you knocked down this pole?" His voice was clipped and his blue eyes glittered threateningly.

"It was I," Eddie blurted.

"You are under arrest for destruction of property not your own and the assault of an officer of the Crown."

"What are you doing?!" America asked his friend.

"It's alright," he said. "My dad's a governor. He'll get me out in a jiff. I'll be fine."

"But after that won't your dad bea—"

"Nevermind my dad, okay? I'll be fine. You'll be fine."

"He didn't knock over the pole! I did," America shouted.

The soldier scoffed. "You have 5 minutes to come to me with the truth or I'll arrest the both of you."

He went back to his companion, and Eddie slapped America on the arm. "You idiot! If I go to jail, I'll be out in a few hours once my dad pays the bail or bribes them! You, you though, there's no one to pay your way out, you'll be rotting in jail for decades! And that's _if_ they don't decide to hang you!"

"I can take a couple decades," America said. He was twenty-five now. If this kept up, he could live for centuries. What were a few short years to someone like him, especially when it meant he could save his friend?

"What's that supposed to mean? No you can't. We're telling him I did it."

"No, we're saying I did. I've got nothing to lose, and you do. It only makes sense."

Eddie laughed. "You're five, and homeless with no education. What do you know about sense?"

"Hey, I am not dumb!" he said. "This is a smart plan and we're going with it."

"It's not even a plan!"

"Well, you don't have a plan either! Let me be a hero for you!"

"No way!"

Before they could agree on anything, the five minutes were up, and the Redcoat held them pinned under his glare, waiting for an answer.

"Well?" he asked.

"I was the one who did it," the two boys said in unison.

* * *

"I would just like to remind you that this entire thing is all your fault," America said to his cellmate.

" _My_ fault? You were the one who broke the porch beam in the first place!"

"And you were the one who confessed to a crime he didn't commit. How dumb was that?"

"Oh, well by all means, I'm so sorry I tried to save you from jailtime. My mistake."

Just then, Edward's father walked in, an important man whose presence seemed to fill the room.

"You know, I was speaking with a member of Parliament when an officer came in and interrupted the meeting, only to inform me that my son was sitting in jail, with a homeless rat of a child, for breaking part of a storefront and gravely wounding a soldier," his voice rose with intensity as he spoke, and Eddie winced.

"I… I deeply apologize."

"You have humiliated me!" he boomed. "My son, the common criminal!"

"Sorry," Eddie squeaked, barely audible.

"Do you have any idea how much it cost to get you out of here?!" he continued. "If you ever pull something like this again, I will make sure you do not forget it for the rest of your life. And if I _ever_ see you anywhere near that street rat in there again, I guarantee you, the consequences will be severe." The last word was loaded with meaning and silky menace.

At his signal, the guard unlocked the cell and Eddie walked out with the air of someone headed to the gallows. His father grabbed him roughly by the arm and led him away.

"Bye Eddie," America said as the cell door swung shut and locked with him still inside. Eddie knew better than to reply.

Now the cell was empty save for him and his dog. The officers had let the dog stay with them, and while America was grateful they weren't being separated, he also felt guilty over it. The dog had done nothing wrong. She didn't deserve to be incarcerated just because her human friend had done something bad. But also, he doubted the old mutt minded.

"What's gonna happen to me?" he asked the guard.

"Your trial is in a week," he said curtly. "The people of Salem will decide your fate then."

America sighed with relief. A jury. A jury was great news. He would cry, and beg, and plead, and it would remind them of their own children, and they would judge him lightly. He would make himself look even smaller and younger than he already did. The jurors would be eating out of the palm of his hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Mathieu woke up in his bed with Colette pacing worriedly across his room, pinching her lips as she thought. When he started to sit up, she jumped at the movement.

"Oh, you're awake," she said. "This is not good Mathieu, this is very, very not good."

"What is?"

"The _explosion!_ " she whirled around to speak in a whisper.

And then Mathieu remembered. There had been bad air in the well. He had knocked a kerosene lamp into it. He had been standing right at the edge, and the explosion had completely consumed him.

He remembered the heat. That extreme, overpowering heat. The fire had roared in his ears louder than a blizzard, but he still managed to hear Colette screaming in the distance. He had felt like his skin was melting. The fire ate up his eyelashes and brows and started in on his long wavy hair. It had filled his nostrils and throat, choking out any possibility of air. He had closed his eyes, fell to his knees, and then every sense shut down.

Now he sat on his bed and every injury had healed. His skin was perfectly smooth. His hair had grown back to exactly the way it was before. He didn't even have any hangnails. The only sign that there had ever been an explosion at all was the lingering scent of smoke that still clung to him.

"How am I alive?" he wondered aloud.

"I don't _know_ , Mathieu, that's the problem!" Colette said. "You should be dead. You should have died instantly. But instead, here you are, fine as can be, not a single burn on you!"

"Well," he said slowly, "that's a good thing, right?"

She stopped pacing. Her face softened. "Of course," she sat down next to him on the bed, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. "Mathieu, I am very glad you survived and came out unharmed. But see, people saw and heard that explosion for miles. All of our neighbors, few as they are, have stopped by to ask about it. Every last worker saw it happen. I've been keeping people out, saying you need peace and that I will take care of you, but they're going to see you eventually. And they'll be expecting someone on the brink of death, which you are not."

"Won't they be happy for me?" he asked innocently. "I don't wanna be all hurt and burned. This is better."

Colette chuckled. "I agree. But people don't like unnatural things. Things they can't explain, people who act oddly… You don't want them to think you're a witch, trust me."

He nodded solemnly. "What am I?"

"A good little boy who doesn't deserve the lot he has been dealt. My baby brother."

"I'm not a baby!"

"Of course not," she said amusedly. "Um, if you don't mind me asking, what is your exact age? How many years have you lived?"

"Twelve," he confirmed something she had long suspected. They had never had this frank a conversation about Mathieu's oddities before.

"You look three."

"I do?"

"Yes. Jacques is fourteen. If you're twelve, then you should look more like him than a toddler."

"So that means I shouldn't tell anyone my age, either, right?"

"Sorry. But that's probably safest," she said. She shook her head. "I just don't know how I'm going to protect you this time. I'm so sorry all this is happening."

"It's not your fault."

"I should have been watching you more closely. I should have moved the lantern farther back. It is my fault, and I am sorry."

Now it was Mathieu's turn to give his adopted sibling a hug. "It's not your fault."

* * *

They walked downstairs hand in hand, both bracing for the worst. Everyone was seated around the table, having supper with much more subdued conversation than normal. It stopped altogether when they saw Mathieu.

Mrs. Bellerose stood up from her seat and backed up to the wall, away from her son. "He… He was… He _burned_ ," she said, but there was a question in her voice.

"Oh, well actually, he was standing just outside the fire. It never truly touched him. He just passed out from smoke inhalation is all. Little bit of a cough, but he should be fine," Colette lied smoothly. Mathieu coughed believably.

"If I may say something, sir," one of the indentured servants looked to his boss, who nodded. "I was in the field right next to the well, about to go work on it myself once it was deemed safe. I saw the whole thing with my own two eyes. The boy was definitely in the fire. Right at the center of it too. It evaporated the dew and scorched all the grass within ten feet of it. The flames were so huge and bright with heat that your son was barely a silhouette. Him surviving that at all is unbelievable," he said. "Not that I meant to imply you were lying, miss. I just think maybe your eyes have tricked you."

Mr. Bellerose eyed the two of them thoughtfully. The trusted foreman of his workers, and his daughter of twenty-one years. "Who else saw what happened?"

One by one, seven other indentured servants came forward and told the exact same story as their foreman. Normally Mr. Bellerose would never consider an impossible story from a servant over a logical one from his own daughter. But Mathieu was just such a strange little boy, always had been. Somehow the impossible seemed more probable with him.

"You're all dismissed to continue supper in your own quarters," he said briskly. The workers scrambled to grab their plates, cups, and utensils and get out.

"Mathieu," he turned to the youngest person in the room. "You've been a son to me these past two years. You know that lying is wrong and that I am a reasonable man. You can tell me the truth."

He bit his thumb and started rocking back and forth. This was so confusing. His dad would never hurt him. How could he possibly lie to his dad? After all that he has done for him? Taking him in when he was alone in the cold? Loving him when he had no real parents?

But Colette knew the situation and had known her father longer. She had never steered him wrong, and she thought lying was the smart thing to do. If he hadn't lied about stealing stew that first day, then they might never have taken him in. No one wants a delinquent. She had known this and told him not to say anything, to lie by omission, and he had, and he had gotten a family out of it. Colette was always right. Everything she had done had only ever been to protect him. She was a good person by any means necessary; who could find fault in that?

"I stood outside the fire," he said quietly.

"He's lying. It's so obvious, just look at him," said Jacques. Jacques had never liked him.

"Are you saying that eight of my workers just lied to me? Why would they do that, Mathieu?" he asked gently.

He bit his thumb nervously. "I don't know."

"How did all your clothes burn to shredded rags when you weren't even singed?"

"I don't know," his voice was cracking with the threat of tears.

The man hesitated before his next question. "Are you immortal?"

Mathieu's chin quivered. He was too choked up to answer, only shaking his head. Huge tears rolled down his cheeks and neck.

Jacques gripped a steak knife and lunged across the room. He yanked Mathieu's arm up and rolled the sleeve down, exposing tender flesh that he dragged the blade across.

"No!" Colette shrieked. She wrestled the knife away and tossed it to the ground behind her. But it was too late. A deep red line of blood rose up from the gash, plain for all to see.

Mathieu crumpled to the floor, wailing and bawling. Colette turned to her brother and smacked him, her face furious. She let loose a long string of words Mathieu had never heard before, some of them not even French, and both her parents gave horrified gasps.

Once Colette stopped shouting, the only sound left was Mathieu's cries. His mother stared at his arm with an eerie calm. "The bleeding stopped."

She dipped a handkerchief in her glass to wet it, and knelt before him to scrub his arm clean. Underneath the blood that hadn't even had time to dry yet, the cut was already completely healed. No mark at all indicated where it had once been.

Fear gripped the large woman. She dropped the red-stained handkerchief and backed away, shaking her head in horror.

"I knew he was unnatural," said Jacques. His face was a mix of panic and anger. "He never seemed to grow. I just thought he was a runt, and here it turns out he's not even human."

"He's too dangerous to stay," said their father.

"What?!" Colette balked. "Mathieu has never hurt a fly. Jacques stabs him in the arm, and _he_ is the one too dangerous to stay?"

"I didn't 'stab' him."

"He could have killed you today, Colette. How far away were you when he blew up the well? You always go out there with him. If it had happened any other day, would you have been far enough away?" Mrs. Bellerose asked. "Or would you have died while he skipped away fine and dandy, not a care in the world?"

"He's the reason Francine died," Jacques added. "He was sick when he came here, and he gave it to her. She _died_ , and there wasn't a scratch on him. Soon as he got better, he was just smiling away, like nothing was wrong. Never forget that."

"God knows you never have," Colette sniped.

"Yeah, 'cause I'm such an awful person for valuing my _real_ sibling over some stranger," he retorted.

"If you think blood is the only thing that connects people as a family, then you're going to lead a very sad and lonely life," she said.

"At least I'll live long enough to see if that's true or not. You'd house an axe murderer if he told you a good enough sob story!"

"Mathieu is not an axe murderer! He is a child who needs our help!"

"He is a danger that I have made up my mind about," their father's firm voice silenced both of them. The man turned to the child on the floor. "Whatever you are, get out of my house and never come back."

Mathieu gasped. He looked around at all their faces. His family, his beloved family, the people who had been his home, was kicking him out. They were dead serious. In the course of one day, they had decided their fear of him outweighed their love of him.

He picked himself up off the floor and headed to the door. Mrs. Bellerose had to undue the leather strap lock to let him out since he couldn't reach it himself.

Colette marched to the door and was about to slam it shut behind her when her mother called:

"Colette, I swear to it, if you don't come right back inside this second, we will disown you. No dowry, no inheritance, no money at all," she said. "There are no opportunities out there for a woman like you. You wouldn't last two days."

She froze. She looked about to break down and cry like Mathieu had. But she refused to let her family control her to such a complete degree. Nevertheless, he saw her heart break as she turned around and went inside.


	7. Chapter 7

America smoothed over his hair one last time, hoping he didn't look too dirty. Most Americans believed in the gospel of wealth. If the jurors realized his situation, they would think God must have seen badness inside him and be punishing him for it. To interfere with that punishment would be to challenge God. Everything depended on the jury not realizing he was poor. He was looking for pity, but the average colonist would not pity poverty.

Officer Walters, the man who had arrested him, brought him to the bench before the judge. They began the questioning, America answering honestly with a trembling voice and fearful eyes.

"Hey, I know you!" one of the jurors suddenly interrupted. America had turned around, eyes wandering and not fully paying attention, and the man had gotten his first glimpse of his face then.

"You're the kid that robbed me three weeks ago!"

America gasped softly, pretending to be hurt by the accusation. His chin quivered for added effect. He looked to the judge beseechingly.

"I n-never stole nothin' from nobody, I swear."

"I have a sister in Salem who was tricked by a kid, looked just like him. He stole some clothes, food, money, whatever he wanted after she started trusting him. Was gone before she could notice what was missing," another juror said.

"My neighbor was just telling me a story like that that happened in some villages just south of here," said a third.

Soon the whole courtroom was inputting stories they had heard from friends and friends of friends. Everyone had heard of him, but never been concerned enough to piece together the full story. Details poured in left and right. It seemed like everybody had at least one or two bits of info they wanted to add.

"Order! Order!" the judge demanded. "The case is hereby suspended until a formal investigation has been conducted."

* * *

Officer Walters sauntered into the jail and over to America's cell. The boy was sleeping, using his ever-loyal dog as a pillow and source of heat.

He clanged his gun against the metal bars. "Wake up!"

America jumped, now wide awake. "You know," the officer said, "most career criminals don't start out until they're at least a teenager. Sure, sometimes circumstance pushes them towards that path a few years earlier every now and then, but it's uncommon. I suppose that makes you a very uncommon criminal then, doesn't it?"

He marched the length of the outside of the cell. "Unless you are actually a whole lot older than you look."

America's heart sped up. He carefully watched the officer's every move, desperately looking for a clue of some sort.

"I started the investigation assuming I would uncover three or four incidents at the most. But then I found more. And more. And more. Tracing an easily mapped path all through New England. It goes back nearly two decades," he said. "So I assumed most of them were false accounts. I went back and thoroughly vetted each and every one of them. I showed the victims several sketches, gave no indication which one was of the suspect, and asked them to identify the thief. All of them said it was you. In fact, several new witnesses came forward at that point.

"I collected lists of everything that had been stolen at each location, the dates you came and left on, and if they had seen which direction you traveled. Few had, but it was easy to deduce nonetheless. You never cleaned up all those camps you made.

"It was at this point I had to ask myself how all of this was possible. How could a child, appearing to be but five, have gone on a crime spree spanning the course of decades? I of course formed several theories of my own, but I would love to hear the truth from the source, if possible.

"So, little nameless boy," he stopped pacing and turned a calculating gaze to the prisoner. "How do you explain yourself?"

America looked down at the floor, small arms curling around the dog in a hug. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He swallowed hard, but still tears sprang to his eyes. They were a habit now, appearing whenever he called them. But this time they came on their own.

"Oh, don't insult my intelligence with all your crying. I just spent an entire month hearing time and time again how you cried every time someone asked a question you didn't want to answer, and then they would pity the poor orphan with an unspeakable past. I can tell you straight off: it's not going to work on me. I won't fall for it."

"It-it's r-r-real thiss time," America choked out through quiet sobs.

"Answer my question," Officer Walters said. His jaw twitched at the crying child. But this was no child, he reminded himself. He wasn't going to fall for it.

"I d-don't _know!_ "

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I-I was always _alone!_ No one ever told me why I'm like this! I don't even have a name! I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know!" he wailed. "I… I don't know anything."

"What are your abilities? What about you is different?" He reminded himself to keep his voice emotionless and without sympathy. The creature in the cell would exploit any weakness. It was his main weapon. So Officer Walters firmly told himself that this was not a crying child in need of help. It wasn't even a child, it just looked like one.

"I age slow," America wiped his nose across his sleeve. He was calming down. A bit. "That's it, I think."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"Why? What do you suspect?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I lived off berries and leaves and stuff when I was little. Maybe most kids wouldn't have thought to do that?"

"No, they would have. They just would have died right away after picking one unripe or poisonous plant. How long did you do that for?"

"Uhh… Nine or ten years, I think."

The soldier blinked. "How did you know which plants were good and which were lethal? In all that time, you just happened to only find edible ones, by pure blind luck?"

"I dunno, I just understood the land," he shrugged again.

"Understoo—"

"Officer Walters," a familiar voice thundered into the room. "I thought I told you to report to _me_ once you were back in town. Or did you forget after being away so long?"

Eddie's father folded his arms and waited expectantly.

"Ah, yes of course, Governor. Technically, you said to report back after I had concluded the investigation, and this is the final leg of the investigation. I am dreadfully sorry about the amount of time it has taken to uncover the truth, but it was no more than absolutely necessary, I assure you." The man went from a cold, unyielding interrogator to a courteous and humble employee in seconds.

"I specifically stated that no one was to talk to the suspect until the trial. Officer Walters, did you disobey a direct order?"

"No! I was merely doing my duty to the fullest extent possible. I thought your order excluded the necessary questioning," he lied.

"It didn't," the governor said. "Any further interrogation can wait until he's before a roomful of witnesses and God in court."

America could tell the officer was silently seething, but he still gave a slight bow of acknowledgement before obeying and leaving the jail.

* * *

Nothing really _happened_ until the trial. America stayed in his cell. His friend the dog was there too. There was nothing to do but sit and think for days, exactly like the month he had spent here while Officer Walters investigated him.

The dog was too old to play with him; after all, they had been travelling together for fifteen years. She had been a puppy that day they met in the forest, and now she was an exceptionally long-lived and well traveled mutt. She was as nameless as her human companion, but that was okay. In America's mind, this dog was too great to be summed up with just one word.

His mind raced in his isolation, thinking too much all at once to comprehend any of it. The result was the same as if he had thought nothing at all and kept his mind completely blank.

So he counted the stones in the walls. He counted the bars on the door. He counted the loose strings and frays in his clothes. He talked about nothing, endlessly, to the dog just so the sound of his own voice would give him something specific to focus on. He drifted into listing all the things he would be willing to do for a single book to read. Almost all of those things were illegal, and—by most standards—highly immoral.

Finally, _finally_ , it was time for his trial. The guard led him and the dog back to the now-familiar courthouse and they obligingly sat on the bench.

Officer Walters was called to prevent his findings. "The suspect, hereafter referred to as John Doe, has no legal recorded name nor any known aliases. He has committed crimes of thievery in the great British colonies of Carolina, Virginia, Delaware, New York, and now, Massachusetts. His charges amount to sixty-eight in number, with 119 witnesses. His first robbery was committed in 1617, and he has continued that course with some regularity since th—"

"Wait," the judge stopped him. "1617? You said the year wrong."

"No. I did not. John Doe has been robbing people for at least fifteen years. He has been alive for a number of years before that—10, if you'll take _his_ word for it."

"What proof have you?" the judge asked.

The officer immediately reached into his satchel and pulled out a huge stack of parchment papers covered in fine, flowing script. "119 written records of eyewitness accounts attest to it. I have also arranged for several of these people to be here today and willing to testify. I could find dozens of others if need be."

The crowd and jury murmured. Fearful whispers and accusations flew across the room. The people hummed like a swarm of insects, ready to close in and attack, and a single word emerged as their weapon of choice.

" _Witch._ "

The word that was a death sentence.

* * *

The entire town gathered in the center street to watch. They stood back far enough that there was a large, clear space for the proceedings to take place in.

"This is the wrong decision," Officer Walters argued with his superior. "He is clearly not a typical witch! They're different. He is something else, an oddity that should be studied thoroughly before such hasty action."

America didn't know if he wanted him to win or lose that debate.

Eddie was standing beside his father, fear etched into his childish features. He didn't take his eyes off his friend for a second. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

America was marched to the center of the street. They hadn't tied his wrists behind his back as they would have with any other criminal. His small hands and chubby fingers posed no threat. Even a witch couldn't attack or resist when in the body of a five-year-old. He was just as aware of his own helplessness as the colonists were.

He stood up on the crate provided. They dropped a noose of rope over his head and it hung heavily on his neck and chest. His heart was beating a thousand miles a minute, his ears filled his head with a constant ringing, and he had a lump in his throat that made it hard to swallow. He met Eddie's gaze.

"No! This isn't right!" He rushed towards the gallows, but his father landed a harsh blow to his shoulder before yanking him back in place. He leaned in and whispered something America couldn't hear. Eddie stilled, frozen in horror at this father's side. He made no further move to help his friend.

The officials read off his sentence, but America wasn't listening. It all seemed so far away. Unreal. This couldn't actually be happening. They couldn't honestly think he was a witch.

Was he?

Before he knew what was happening, they yanked the crate out from under him. He fell and the rope caught him by the neck. The noose tightened under his weight…

He saw the townspeople's apathetic, blaming, hateful looks before his vision went completely black.

Then there was nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

One thing was certain. Mathieu was _not_ going to move in with another family.

He already had a family. He may not have been there for long, and they may have rejected him in the end, but they were still his family. Family is never something temporary. Once two or more people become related in that intimate of a way, nothing and no one can ever disconnect them, for better or for worse.

But living in the harsh wilderness of New France had been miserable. It hadn't killed him, and he realized now that it couldn't have, but it still had been an unpleasant experience. One he did not wish to repeat.

So he went to an orphanage. And then another one. And another.

He never stayed too long. He couldn't bear it if someone caught on again and hurt him like that. The longer you stayed somewhere, the more people felt entitled to information about yourself. So Mathieu moved on before anyone got too curious.

He was adopted several times. He was a cute kid; friendly, well-behaved, good manners. Couples' hearts melted over him like sugar in water.

The thing is, people don't ask kids at orphanages if they want to be adopted. Of course an orphan would want a family. It's not like they have any other prospect; otherwise, they wouldn't be in an orphanage.

Staying with those couples, even for a second, made Mathieu feel lower than dirt. His silence was a lie. He was dangerous, not the perfect child they thought he was. And he could never tell them the truth. In this culture, in this time, the truth could get him killed. The Belleroses had actually been immeasurably merciful in letting him get away. The more time he spent out in the world, hearing people talk, hearing their opinions, the more he realized how much they hated and feared the inexplicable.

He realized his father, Mr. Bellerose, had really only acted in everyone's best interests. If their neighbors had found out about Mathieu's powers, they might have formed a mob. Tarred and feathered him. Maybe even lynched him. His staying there put the entire household in danger—they would have all been deemed "infected" or thought to have willfully harbored him, this unclean, unnatural, unhuman thing. And then they would have suffered the exact same fate as him. Except they couldn't come back from dead.

Mathieu saw his father's reasoning. It was logical. Smart. He could almost forgive him. But he didn't. Not after seeing how Colette was really treated; kept in her place by her mother because of the decisions of her father.

Every "family" he had insisted on changing his last name. Mathieu De La Fuente. Mathieu Sauveterre. Mathieu Descoteaux. Mathieu Villeneuve. He started keeping a list, written on a folded up slip of parchment tucked into his shoe.

He wasn't sure what happens on the days after he gets adopted, when the couple wakes up and realizes their "son" is gone. It couldn't be good. But then, they had only known him for one day, or just part of one day, so how attached could they have gotten? Besides, they could just go back to the orphanage and adopt a different kid, one who truly wanted to be adopted. Maybe Mathieu leaving was changing lives and giving some kids a dream come true and a happy family.

He was painfully aware of how unlikely that was. He knew full well that he had broken some would-be parents' hearts, and it might have turned them off the idea of adopting altogether. They might think all children in orphanages were ungrateful runaways. Every interaction he had with all those people would form lasting first impressions. He felt like he was walking on eggshells those days. It was miserable.

He knew the list in his shoe was really of the homes he'd broken. He was wandering aimlessly and wrecking lives in the process. Whenever he thought about it, it became that much more obvious that the worst-case scenario was the real-life scenario.

All those poor people. They had been so overjoyed to finally have a kid. One they really liked.

If you break a heart, you have no right to forget that person and the pain you caused them, no matter how innocently. So Mathieu kept adding to the list. He was determined to never forget.

He tried to do nothing that would compel anyone to adopt him. He learned to be quiet, to look weak. People wanted a vibrant, lively child with a bright and interesting personality. They wanted a subdued, quiet child who wouldn't start fights or cause trouble. They wanted a boy who would grow into a strong young man to help around the house and take care of them in their old age. They wanted someone who would be independent and self-sufficient as an adult so as not to burden them. They wanted a meek and obedient child who wouldn't question authority.

It seems that a perfect child cannot possibly exist without being one long list of contradictions. Mathieu couldn't possibly be the opposite of all those things. And he drew the line at being purposefully rude or hurtful to people who had done nothing wrong. So he was quiet, refusing to speak unless spoken to. Uninteresting, not worth their time. Most didn't care and kept trying to coax conversation out of him anyway. Then he would feign lethargy, yawning and blinking sleepily, maybe throwing in a good fake cough or two. That scared them right off.

"Hey, you look really familiar, have you been here before? Yeah, now I remember, a while back we had a kid in here, looked just like you, maybe just a little bit younger," one of the workers nodded enthusiastically.

Great. He had been here before. He really needed to start keeping track of this stuff.

"Uh, yeah. I… have a younger brother. That was him."

"Don't you mean older? It was ten years ago."

Mathieu laughed nervously. "Slip of the tongue."

"How come you weren't with your brother? In my experience, siblings will fight tooth and nail to stick together. If you knew where he was, like you said, then why didn't you come join him?" the worker asked. She gave him a once-over and thought better of it, adding, "Or were you not alive then? You look young; what, seven, maybe eight years old?"

"Seven and a half," Mathieu grinned. "Umm… My brother… Our parents were poor, and they gave him up so he could have a better life. They told me about him though, and that's how come I know. That's why I'm here too. So's I could have a better life."

"Oh," the worker said. "That must have been awful; being abandoned like that. Your next family won't do that. I promise."

"I don't care," he replied without thinking. He cringed as soon as he said it.

"You don't care? Don't you want to be adopted?" she said with bemused shock, not thinking he was serious.

All he had to do was lie. He had done it before. Just lie. So easy. "No…"

The woman sputtered. "Whyever not?!"

"'Cause… Because they won't be my real family," he said more strongly. "If some strangers adopt me, I'm just gonna run away. I don't wanna live with strangers."

"They won't be strangers. They'll be your real family, just as much as your old one was. You just have to get to know them."

Mathieu said nothing, and the worker saw her words were having no effect at all. She studied him, for real this time, before continuing.

"Maybe you could be an apprentice," she said. "We usually try to get much older children apprenticeships, but some start this young. Even younger in some towns. Would that be something you would like? Instead of being adopted?"

"What would I being doing?"

"Learning a trade, being taught by a master worker and helping them out with their work," she said. "Let's see, in town I think there are eight master workers right now? Only a few are looking to take on a new apprentice. There's the blacksmith, the stable owner, the doctor… I think that might be it. So those are your three options, kid, what do you want to be?"

"A doctor," he said instantly.

The woman chuckled. "That was fast. Alright, I'll put in a good word for you. Hopefully we can work something out."

A doctor. He had never thought of it before, what he wanted to do with his life. Mostly he had just been living. Getting from one day to the next, his loftiest goal being a warm bed and a good meal for that night. The idea of a career had never entered his head, and he certainly hadn't considered choosing any specific one.

But hearing it said aloud, it made all the sense in the world. Of course he would be a doctor. Even if he had had the choice of every job in the world, he realized now that he would still choose doctor. He could help so many people. With his long lifespan, he could learn everything there was to learn and improve so many lives. Who knows? He might even save someone.

For the first time in decades, Mathieu was thinking more than one day into the future. And he was looking forward to it.

* * *

Three weeks later, Mathieu hopped from one foot to the other on the doorstep of an isolated house out in the country. The wind pressed his coat flush against him and sent stinging snowflakes onto his hands and face, where they melted instantly into icy drops.

The door opened—finally—in reply to his knock. Yellow light and warmth spilled out onto the step and onto Mathieu. A tall, elderly man was standing in the doorframe.

"Ms. Andersson sent me," he said as way of introduction.

"Oh, you must be Mathieu! Come in, come in, it's far too cold outside," the doctor ushered him in. His house was in the dirty, messy state of someone who had been single for far too long. Papers, books, even clothes and dirty dishes were scattered everywhere. The entire house seemed to be an obstacle course or maze of sorts that only made sense to the old man.

"Ah, sorry for the mess. I've been meaning to clean up around here a bit. Can't seem to get around to it," the doctor said. "Anyway, you're to be staying here while you're my apprentice, correct? Best show you to your room then."

Mathieu's room was a perfect bedroom for a boy a few years older than him. In appearance, anyways. The bed was a little big and a little tall, things were built for almost adult-size hands, everything was just slightly out of reach. And covered in dust. Despite being remarkably neater than the other rooms, this one was definitely dustier. It was like no one had been in here in years, much less cleaned the place.

The doctor must have had a son once upon a time.

Mathieu shrugged and pulled a stiff nightgown out of a drawer. So what if it had been someone else's room before? It was his now. He wasn't going to feel guilty about it. He had no intention of being anyone's second-best replacement for a son. That was _not_ going to happen.

He said his prayers, shook out the disused pillow to fluff it up, turned out the lantern, and went to sleep in the creaky old bed. He wasn't even going to think about it.

* * *

He fell into the routine of his new life with ease. He stood on the sidelines when Dr. McCarthy performed surgeries, passing tools and watching the techniques. He held people's hands in their final moments if they had no one else to do so. The doctor would explain what he was checking for and how to identify diseases when diagnosing people. Mathieu listened, learning the different diseases and their symptoms and treatments by watching firsthand.

Dr. McCarthy also welcomed him to read any medical textbook he owned. The remedial reading skills he had picked up around the orphanage simply weren't enough for the complex medical jargon. But Dr. McCarthy was understanding and helped him with any words he had trouble with, which was almost all of them. He eventually just took to reading the books aloud and running his finger along under the words while Mathieu sat on his lap. It would almost have been familial, like a grandfather teaching his grandson to read, except the books were about plagues instead of fairytales.

The old doctor had all but completely stopped doing housework. If Mathieu was brutally honest, he lived like a caveman. He just didn't seem to see the point in taking of things, or himself.

So it was Mathieu who did the laundry and the dishes and the cleaning and stitched up clothes that tore. Dr. McCarthy did all the outdoor work and cooked all the meals, but Mathieu knew the chores he now did had just been outright neglected beforehand. He couldn't help but think he was living with the world's most useless adult.

Except when it came to his work. Then it was like he became an entirely different person. The doctor was calm, rational, logical. He was the most level-headed and knowledgeable person you could ever hope to have treating you. He cared when it mattered.

Maybe that was why so many people showed up to his funeral. He had helped so many people, and had been so kind while doing it. The whole village mourned. They had no way of contacting the doctor's son in time for the burial, but he did show up a few months later and claimed his inheritance.

He insisted the medical textbooks go to Mathieu. He wouldn't have gotten any use out of them any way, and anyone who wanted to be a doctor should always have the opportunity to study their field.

Everyone said how the old doctor had viewed him as a grandson. He chided himself. He knew better than to let a—a normal person get attached to him. It only led to broken hearts. And who knew what effect it would have on the doctor's son—living in a place where some long-gone stranger was considered a more real family, a better child and companion, than his biological heir?

He wrote 'McCarthy' on the parchment in his shoe.

Within four months of Dr. McCarthy's death, Mathieu was on another doctor's doorstep, a heavy suitcase on each side.


	9. Chapter 9

America's eyes shot open.

He was lying flat on a wooden table. The room was dimly lit by only lanterns and no windows, but he could still clearly see the corpses surrounding him, lain out on similar wooden tables.

He leapt to his feet, circling around on the table, scanning every corner of the room. He must be in the morgue. There was a small tray near the door with blood-splattered surgical tools badly in need of a cleaning. Other than that, the room was mostly empty. Except for all the dead people, of course.

The dead people. The burning kerosene gave them an unnatural tint to already decaying skin. Some of them still had their eyes open, showing a yellow film over dull, lifeless eyes. Fear thrummed through his veins. Dead people. Ghostly pale.

Gathering his courage, he snaked down off the table. Then ran out of the room, out of the building, out of the town, out into the woods. He couldn't get far enough away. He ran until his legs collapsed, falling to the ground, his lungs heaving.

America stayed on the ground to catch his breath. Soon his panting turned to sobbing. He cried and cried and cried. His face turned red and spotty. His nose kept running, and he wiped it against his sleeve so many times the skin turned scratchy and raw.

He lay on his back, watching the clouds move across the night sky. He was just so sad, all the time. He didn't used to be. But then that soldier got hurt and ruined everything.

All he did was punch a pole. Poles are supposed to be sturdy. It was strong enough to hold up a roof, but a child's punch sent it falling? Yeah, right. It must have been rotting wood that was about to fall over no matter what. America just had the incredible misfortune of being the straw that broke the camel's back.

He pushed himself upright and gave the two-note whistle he always used to call the dog. A pause. Nothing. Oh yeah, he was really far away. The dog was probably waiting for him outside the courthouse or jail. He would have to go back into Salem.

He headed back, giving the whistle periodically. He would like to avoid going back into the actual town if possible. As old as the dog was, her ears were still good, and she should be able to hear him from the outskirts.

He circled the entire village three times. The dog still didn't come. Maybe he should go in. All the people were sleeping at this hour. It would be well worth the risk if it meant getting his friend back.

The calluses of his foot brushed against soft fur.

The body of his loyal dog was at his feet, a second away from being stepped on. A bullet wound marred her face just below the eye. A long black streak of blood had dried on her fur like a tear.

He gasped, backing away in horror, then breaking into a run. The dog was dead. His friend the dog was dead.

They had shot her. The beautiful old dog was just a dead body now. A dead body just like the terrifying, ghostly human ones in the morgue. The morgue…

Why had he been in the morgue?

When had they shot the dog?

Why?

There had been… the trial, and then…

The rope had been pulling on his neck, holding him in the air, and all the sounds and colors just became so much _less_ …

And then—

 _He had been dead_.

America screamed.

* * *

He woke up in the forest. He must have passed out. The sun was high in the sky now, and all the birds and animals were going about their day.

He had been dead.

He aged slow, _extremely_ slow.

He understood the land in a way no one else did.

Time to figure out what else he could do.

* * *

Test #1: Flight.

America stood on the edge of a cliff, looking over it proudly. If he had superpowers at all, which he knew for a fact he did, this had to be one of them. He had always loved the sky. He loved looking at the stars and wondering what secrets they held, he loved watching the clouds and thinking about what it must be like to see above them, he loved seeing huge birds of prey swooping and gliding like they owned the world. It would be a dream come true if he could really and truly reach for the stars. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he could fly if he wanted to.

The cliff he stood on had a one-hundred-foot drop that curved inward so the end formed a ledge jutting out. He wanted to be sure that he wouldn't crash into anything only ten feet down, and this would give him lots of time on the way down just in case it took a while to get the hang of things. Who knows? Flying might be harder than those great eagles made it look.

He spread his arms out wide and let himself fall. The wind was a roaring vacuum around him. He sliced through the sky like a bullet. Like a shooting star. He giggled at the thought.

Okay. Time to focus. He concentrated hard on going up, on slowing down, but nothing happened. He was still hurtling to the ground at top speed.

Maybe he should flap his arms, like birds did when they were first taking off and hadn't caught any thermals yet. But that did nothing either.

He was starting to regret this decision.

 _What if he couldn't actually fly?_

Oh no, oh no, he definitely hadn't considered this. He had been so _sure_ , and now he was going to die. He was going to die, splat on the ground, like a fly swatted by a horse's tail. He was going to die.

The ground rushed up at him, and he closed his eyes, not knowing what else he could do. His body slammed into it, the shock reverberating through his bones. He felt several of them shatter, and cried out.

Blood ran from his crooked nose and temple, dripping from his forehead into his eyes. He felt as if every rib was broken. His shoulder had been dislocated when it hit a rock, but that was the least of his worries.

The bone of his leg had broken and splintered, slicing through the skin into the dusty air. America nearly threw up when he saw it, and the motion sent white-hot pain coursing through him.

But then something amazing happened. The bone, moving all on its own, slid back into place. The skin reknit over it, and he felt a cool rush as the leg became whole again. The pain was gone.

While he was watching, his shoulder popped back into place seamlessly, the soothing anesthetic making it so it didn't hurt at all. His nose straightened out, and the fractures in his temple smoothed back to solid bone. The cold, refreshing feeling spread through his chest. Even the little minor cuts stitched themselves up. The only sign that anything had had happened at all was the tears and ground-in dirt and blood on his clothes.

"Well, that's new," he said.

* * *

Test #2: Invisibility.

He scrunched his face up tight, getting his eyes as closed as possible. When he opened them, everything was dark at first and colorful smudge thingies blurred his vision.

But then he blinked and they went away and he could still see himself clear as day.

* * *

Test #3: Breathing underwater.

He decided that even if he would be alright in the end, dying wasn't fun, so he didn't want that to happen again. So he was going to test this in the safest way possible.

He sat on an empty beach, firmly gripping two deeply-embedded rocks. The waves kept crashing against him and soaking his shirt, nearly knocking him over every time because of how light he was.

He resisted the urge to draw in a huge breath and dunked his head into the waves. A bit of dirt swirled out of his hair. Heh, he should probably bathe more often. Then again, who cares? No parents, no rules.

Very soon, he pulled his head back up, gasping. He ran up the beach and fell down again, puking up half an ocean's worth of salt water.

So a no to this one.

* * *

Test #4: Super strength.

This one he was nervous about. He really did not want to break any more bones. It _hurt_. It hurt bad.

He steeled himself. Had to know. No matter what. He pulled back a tiny fist and punched the tree in front of him. A huge dent went halfway through the trunk, the bark splintering out in a circle.

"Whoa," he whispered.

Did this mean he really did hurt that soldier? That guy had… If the beam had fallen just a few inches to the left, that guy would have died.

He almost killed someone.

Manslaughter. A step down from murder.

He had been two inches away from being a killer and this was how he did it.

America didn't feel like doing any more tests.

* * *

But he still did. Curiosity demands to be sated. Asking a question and then leaving it unanswered was unacceptable. It made him nervous, edgy. Like he wanted to punch someone. Except he couldn't do that anymore.

Test #5: Super speed.

America ran often. Not because of any pursuit of athleticism; mostly because people were chasing him. So he was already fast. But if he tried, really, _really_ tried, could he be so much faster?

He was at the end of a long dirt road built to access the adjoining field. In the cold fall after the harvest, no one was in the field, or around here at all.

He took off sprinting. At a very average speed. Then he didn't get much faster, and soon started slowing down.

* * *

Eighteen experiments later, America finally believed he had tested everything he could. He found nothing aside from super strength and quick healing. Not that those were nothing, by any means.

He had superpowers. He had never questioned it before. It was high time that he started. And he wasn't going to learn anything drifting from town to town robbing people.

Time to make an honest living.


	10. Chapter 10

Mathieu and the new doctor banged on the door of the house they had just heard a scream coming from inside.

"Come on, come on, open the door," the doctor muttered under his breath. Dr. la Rue, his name was. He was much younger than Dr. McCarthy had been, and had readily taken him in when he heard about how the old doctor died before he could finish his apprenticeship. He was determined to keep a professional distance this time. He wasn't going to be adding any more names to his list.

Finally, an elderly woman opened the door, giving them rushed directions. "That's my great-grandchild you'll be delivering, so you'd best not screw anything up."

"Wouldn't think of it, Madame," Mathieu flashed her a smile before running in to the bedroom after the doctor.

A very pregnant woman was lying on the bed, screaming in pain and clutching a man's hand so tightly it looked like his bones were about to break. Mathieu opened the doctor's kit and started getting things ready while Dr. la Rue gave quiet reassurances and instructions to the young couple.

Three stress-filled hours later, the woman looked and felt like she had just gone through a war, but she gave a tearful smile when Mathieu placed the healthy baby in her arms.

On their way out, the elderly woman from before stopped him. She gave him a long look, like she couldn't believe her eyes.

"Mathieu?" she asked.

As far as he knew, he didn't know any eighty-year-old women. Her voice was a little familiar, though. And so were her eyes…

" _Colette?!_ "

She had a warm laugh smooth as honey, just like all those years ago. "I didn't age very well, did I? I suppose I look very different than how you remembered."

He turned to Dr. la Rue, who was waiting by the door. "Uh, she's an old friend—I mean, not a friend who is old, a friend who… uh…"

The doctor gave a quick nod. "Just be back before it gets dark out. Wouldn't want you to get lost."

He turned back happily to his older sister.

* * *

"Well, you certainly grew up a ton."

Mathieu laughed. "Yeah, a whole four and half years."

"And a half?"

"It makes a difference," he nodded.

She shook her head in amusement. "So where have you been all this time? How have you been getting by?"

In answer, he pulled off his left shoe and took out the neatly folded paper in the bottom of it. The parchment was worn, and the writing on it had faded with age near the top. When had that happened?

Colette scanned the list with interest. The oldest, faintest entry was the first one on the list, the one that said 'Bellerose'. Nine others followed, the visibility and handwriting improving with each.

"I never stayed with them for more than a day. 'Cept for Dr. McCarthy. I was his apprentice, but then he died."

"I'm so sorry," she said softly, still frowning at the list.

"For what?"

"That this is the sort of life you had to lead. I always meant to go find you, after I got married and had my own house, but life kept getting in the way. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," he said. "You got married?"

"You just delivered my great-grandchild. What sort of dishonorable woman do you think I am? Of course I got married," she teased.

"Who to?" he asked.

"Luc Pettigrew. One of the indentured servants. Oh, Mama threw a fit like you wouldn't believe. Papa paid off his debt himself just to get him away from me. He said that if I married Luc, then I could consider myself disowned. I said that didn't matter, 'cause I had no intention of calling myself a Bellerose anymore anyway. So we eloped.

"Course we were dirt poor. We only had a little money, a few acres, and a gun that Luc got from his freedom dues. But we made it. Now we have this huge, wonderful family. There are always children around. Everything worked out in the end, I guess."

"That's great!" Mathieu threw his arms around her.

They kept talking until it was time for him to head home. He got into the habit of visiting twice a week in the afternoons. He had soon made friends with all of Colette's grandkids and great-grandkids, rocking or feeding the babies and toddlers in his lap sometimes. She had such a big family. Surrounded by love.

He said something along those lines at her funeral. He was glad he got to speak at it. Everyone knew they were close, and acknowledged it, even if they didn't understand why. They couldn't exactly say they were siblings. There was no logical way for any parents to have children eighty years apart.

"She lived a long life. Eighty-four years is quite a thing to achieve. Everyone who knew Colette loved her. She was so kind and generous. Passionate. She always stood up for what she believed in. No matter what," Mathieu glanced back at the casket behind him. Her gray-white hair was styled elaborately, the way she had done it when she first came to New France and refused to let go of culture just because they were alone in the wilderness. She had been adamant about hanging onto the finer things in life; be they clothes, food, ideals.

He cried when they lowered her into the ground, but they were silent tears. He didn't feel heartbroken like he had expected. The woman who named him, his sister, his protector—had just died, and didn't feel much of anything. He had expected it, he supposed. That must have softened the blow. She had been so old, older even than Dr. McCarthy.

The time had gone by so fast. It seemed like it was only a little while ago that she was scolding him for stealing stew. She had died of old age, exceptionally old age, in the blink of an eye. Other people lived their whole lives in, what? A day? How did time go by so fast? How didn't it drive them all insane?

Or was that just Mathieu being _different_ again?

He was so unnatural. Some days it felt like he wasn't even human.

Maybe that was true. But he certainly couldn't bear to face it right now.

* * *

He moved on. Another doctor, another town. He didn't add any names to his list. 'Bellerose' was already on it. He had been successful in keeping his distance from la Rue. He was successful in that way time and time again. Each time he told the new doctor that the last one had taught him everything he knew, and he had come to further his education under a better teacher. The little boost to their ego was all it took most of the time.

By now, he had had eighty-three years of training to be a doctor. He knew everything the medical world had to teach him. The people he now studied under were amateurs compared to him, and he tried to suggest different ways of doing things sometimes, but he always got rebuked for thinking above his station.

It was a shame he couldn't open his own practice. But he looked twelve. He was far too young to ever be a respected physician.

He was still in Acadia, New France. He was reluctant to leave this colony. It had been his first home. His only home so far.

Then the British Redcoats came. They had guns and shouted to each other in a language Mathieu didn't understand. They rounded all the townsfolk up and herded them onto ships. Some people fought back and got away. Even though he had aged considerably—he looked twelve now—Mathieu was no match for a soldier in the most powerful military in the world. A gun to his back prodded him forward onto a ship with everyone else who had been captured. Herded like cattle.

Two kids a little younger than him sat next to him on the cramped bunk. The girl looked mad more than anything, but her brother seemed more resigned.

Suddenly the girl snapped a demanding question at a soldier. In English. The soldier froze, then turned around slowly. He sneered and gave an answer. Mathieu was almost surprised he didn't hit her. He berated himself for expecting the worse of people.

But given the girl's expression, his words had more of an effect than any slap would have.

"What did you say," her brother hissed.

"I asked where we're going," she said.

"And?"

"All Acadian citizens are being deported to the Thirteen Colonies."

Fear gripped Mathieu's heart. The Colonies were a bad place to be. There were rumors all the time about them, and they only ever got worse.

* * *

The journey itself was short. Acadia and Massachusetts were not that far apart, especially when considering how it took two months at least to get from Europe to the New World, three months sometimes.

The problem was after they docked there. The man who had ordered their deportation, William Shirley, forbid them from disembarking. Very soon, the ships froze in place in the harbor.

Looks like they would be spending winter on the boat.

Mathieu slumped back against the wall. "Does anybody know why we were deported in the first place?" he asked his travel partners. The brother and sister had been separated from their parents on that fateful day, and for some reason they had latched on to Mathieu. He had no clue why. He was a stranger, looked only a few months older than them, and had nothing helpful to offer. But hey.

"You don't know?" the girl asked. Madeleine. Her name was Madeleine.

He shook his head.

"Remember that big uproar when the Brits wanted us to sign an oath of unconditional loyalty to them? And even people who'd been neutral in the war were against it? This is our punishment for that," her brother said drolly. "Apparently us keeping our lands and homes gave the French an unfair advantage."

"I hear they're sending us to rural areas," Madeleine added. "They want us far away from big cities and ports. Don't want us to hop on a boat and go back home, if we somehow had the money."

"They have no way of enforcing that," Mathieu said. "What, are they going to put a guard on every single Acadian for the rest of our lives?"

"No, but who is going to go back without their family?" the boy, Pierre, said. "They are splitting everybody up. Arrangements are being made for all the orphans to be adopted. But also, even the kids who have parents, whose parents are with them on the boat, are being 'distributed' to a bunch of different families in Massachusetts."

"That's sick," Mathieu said. He watched a mother on the bunk opposite playing with a giggling toddler, a bittersweet smile on her face. Apparently everyone knew about this.

The children were going to be taken away.

* * *

The cold soon made everything miserable. A layer of frost covered the outside of the ship, but it quickly turned into a layer of ice that got thicker every day. Below decks, the ice only appeared in corners and wet patches, but it was just as awful, if not worse.

Everything down there was cramped and small, trying to accommodate too many people on too few supplies. The frigid air did little to help the overwhelming stench.

Then things started running out. Food. Water. Blankets. Patience. And things got bad.

There was never enough heat. Mathieu found he was depending on Pierre and Madeleine for his life. They all huddled on the same bunk at night, draping every scrap of fabric they had over each other like a tent. It wasn't warm. They still shook in their sleep like everybody else. But it kept them alive.

Others were not so fortunate. Every morning, there were dead people lying in bunks, and the people who noticed first raided their bunks for food and blankets. Babies and the elderly had the greatest disadvantage, both being so easily affected by the temperature.

The ship had a priest. His funeral services became formulaic, the same thing every time with only the person's name changed.

Mathieu's experience as a doctor was soon in high demand. People would beg and plead if there was just something, _anything_ he could do to save their loved ones. They would offer everything they could spare: water, food, blankets, money. Some tried to give him far more than they could afford to, pretending they weren't trading away life-sustaining materials on the slim hope it would save their loved one.

Mathieu flat-out refused any payment unless he actually did something that had a chance of saving someone. If they were going to die no matter what, then he made them as comfortable as he could for free. This became common knowledge, and the people came to dread the doctor's discounts more than his diagnoses.

These people were more than willing to trade a life for a life if he only let them. But giving away all their supplies for services that were doomed to accomplish nothing was foolish. If Mathieu took the payments they offered, it would show the highest contempt for the value of life he could imagine.

* * *

They were on the ships for four long winter months before being allowed off. By then, half of the passengers had died of starvation or cold.

They assigned him a family. He wrote their name on his list.

April 3rd, 1756, Mathieu pulled out a map he had taken from his latest family and started trudging east through the sludgy, melting snow. He was going to a city. Boston, specifically.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Big thanks to the people who reviewed! You guys are so sweet!**

* * *

When America said he was going to make an "honest living", that may have been a slight exaggeration.

While his occupation may not be honest, per se, it was a good deed. The colonies only had young, fledgling economies. They were a developing nation, of sorts. If the people actually followed British laws, then any teensy bit of progress would be lost. The colonial economy would be crushed and forever stagnant. The English in America led very different lives from the English in Europe, and that just kept getting more and more obvious. To everybody _but_ the government.

Besides, with the policy of salutary neglect, America liked to think the "laws" were more just suggestions that no one actually cared about. It would cost four times as much for the navy to enforce the trade laws than the taxes were even worth. He was far from the only smuggler. In fact, smuggled goods were the most common ones in the market.

He was goofing off at the docks when he overheard a ship captain trying to argue with a Redcoat, who wasn't budging. The captain was Dutch, so his ship wasn't allowed here and he was being ordered to turn back. He was using every argument in the book, to no avail.

America sauntered over and slung his arm around the Dutchman's shoulders. He smirked and addressed the Redcoat, "My friend here is clearly just another English merchant, come here to trade. It's perfectly legal for him to be here, don't you think?"

America rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, mouthing 'money'. Realization dawning, the captain scrambled to pull out a few paper bills and hand them to the Redcoat.

The Redcoat counted the money slowly before pocketing it. "Ah, yes, of course. Just another English merchant. Sorry for the trouble. Have a wonderful day, sir."

With a tip of his hat, he was gone. The Dutchman turned to America, questioning, his long blue-and-white scarf twisting in the wind.

"Why did you help me?"

The corners of his mouth curved up in a Cheshire cat grin. "Because I think we can work out an arrangement. I get you past the Redcoats hassle free, and in return you give me money."

Netherlands snorted. "What you just did wasn't 'hassle free'. I still had to pay a bribe."

"What if next time the only person they talked to was undeniably English? Like me."

"They'll never believe a mere boy is captain of a ship. You're only, what, ten years old?"

"Twelve!" America said, offended.

"Still," Netherlands said.

"Well, yeah, it's suspicious. But a bribe to disregard suspicion is a lot cheaper than a bribe to disregard blatant law-breaking."

Netherlands considered it for a moment. "Alright. Name your price."

He was expecting something fairly high. Chances are it would be this boy's only source of income. With the immense amount of wealth to be made trading with the colonies, and the exorbitant fare he had needed to pay off the customs official, Netherlands would be willing to pay almost anything.

"I want to be paid in tea. Also, I get to read any books you bring over before you sell them," America said firmly.

"What."

"You heard me."

Netherlands stared at him. The boy struggled not to squirm under his gaze. He remembered England complaining about his thirteen personified colonies. He said they were always underfoot, fighting either him or each other. They ran circles around the empire and were constantly in one horrific, inhumane crisis or another.

Now that he was looking for it, he could tell. This boy had the same, mysterious sense about him that all the personifications had. Which colony was he in again? Massachusetts?

"Alright. I'll be back in port about mid May. Take a canoe out to sea and I'll bring you aboard so that you can be first off the ship when we dock and deal with the officials. And," he said, "not one word of this reaches your father, understand?"

"I don't have a father," America said.

"Hm. Of course not," Netherlands said. So the little colony had disowned England. Made sense, given his actions.

Even better. A revolting colony had an infinitely greater need for smuggled goods than a peaceful one did. Rebellion was great for business.

"Happy meeting you, Massachusetts," he said, turning back to his ship and already giving orders.

America frowned. Did the captain just call him Massachusetts?

* * *

America was heading out of town, his tea and borrowed books in a sack, when he saw him. They almost walked right past each other, but stopped once they saw.

America was looking at himself, but with fancier clothes and longer, wavier hair.

Mathieu was looking at himself, if he were a homeless kid in need of a bath instead of a doctor.

It was like seeing what could have been and almost was.

America was the first to break the silence. "Hi," he said. "Uh… So you look like me, what's that about? Who are you?"

"I have no clue what you're saying. I don't speak English," Mathieu replied in French.

"Huh," America nodded, not understanding. "A'ight. I don't speak French, you don't speak English, that's a problem. But we can work work around this."

* * *

The boy had led him to a clearing in the woods with a makeshift tent in the center. He was talking excitedly the entire time in English, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Mathieu didn't understand.

America rummaged around his tent until he found the switchblade he used for just about everything. This guy looked like him. Looked way _too_ much like him.

But looks didn't tell you squat.

When America crawled out of the tent, knife in hand, the other boy paled and looked about to bolt. He immediately dropped the knife and held up both hands in a gesture of goodwill.

Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, he picked the knife back up. He rolled down his own sleeve and dragged the knife acrossed it a few times. It took a while for the skin to catch. But when it did, he put the tip of the blade into the cut and extended it into a long slit.

He wiped away the blood that sprang up. It had already healed underneath.

The other boy watched all this with a distant expression on his face. America set the knife on the ground and kicked it over. A wordless question.

Mathieu picked it up delicately. He had taken a knife to skin so many times before. Never his own, of course. And he never used something as crude as a switchblade.

He rolled up his sleeve far above his elbow and sliced cleanly into the skin of his forearm, where there were less nerve endings. He was much more efficient and was careful to avoid any major blood vessels.

The thin cut appeared and disappeared within seconds. America's entire presence seemed to light up. There was someone else who was like him.

* * *

Mathieu went briefly back to his current 'teacher' and told some see-through lie about a family emergency calling him away for a while. He intended to spend a few days with the other boy, the one like him, to try and figure out what in the world was going.

When he came back, the other boy looked ecstatic and started a long stream of fast English words. He thought he had made it clear he would only be gone for a little while. But the boy acted like he had been gone for centuries.

The boy was talking so much that Mathieu was starting to pick out patterns in his way of speaking and recognize certain words. Within a few hours, if nothing else, he could at least say some English words in no particular order and sort of get a point across.

America, however, was learning French much more slowly.

He was sitting on the ground, using a sharpened stick to draw in the dirt. He scratched out a very tiny stick figure surrounded by large sticks with squiggles on top.

"Are those supposed to be trees?" Mathieu asked. America shook his head 'no' and pointed to some nearby trees, indicating that they were in fact trees.

He drew the stick figure moving along a dotted line into a cluster of boxes meant to represent a town, apparently. Then he added the tiny stick figure running away from the town, an indeterminate blob in his hand, and a much bigger stick figure was behind him, shaking his fist in the air and with angry-face eyebrows.

Mathieu squinted at the scribble. "That little stick figure is you, right?" He pointed at the boy. "You?"

America nodded enthusiastically.

"So you were in the forest…" Mathieu turned back to the series of drawings. "Then you came to town, and… I'm sorry, I don't think I understand the last one." He chuckled, "It almost looks like you're robbing people."

America didn't know what he said, but he could see his confusion. He smoothed out the dust patch and started over, talking all the while.

"I woke up in the forest and I had nothin', knew nothing. So my only option was to go find people, get them to trust me," he drew a small stick figure and a larger stick figure hugging, "then take what I needed from them and split." He drew the small one forcefully taking a circle from the large one. Then he added the small one running away into the forest.

"So you are a career criminal and that's the first thing you decide to tell me?" Mathieu asked dubiously.

America cleared away his sketches and passed the stick to the French speaker. "Your turn!"

If only they spoke the same language that way Mathieu could let him know how stupid his introduction was in a way he would understand.

He sighed and took the stick. "I don't really know what you're looking for. A condensed life story? In a small patch of dirt with a stick? What sort of results do you think you're gonna get?"

Nevertheless, he scratched out a small stick figure surrounded by trees, the same image America had started with, albeit more detailed. Then he drew a simple house outline with a family of six inside. He traced an 'x' over one of the girls, the smallest person in the drawing other than himself. Then he drew the littlest stick figure now standing next to a doctor, then another doctor, then another, each one tweaked just a little in his drawings.

"The people with the stethoscopes and stuff are doctors, right?" America asked. "Why so many doctors? Are you always getting sick or something? Is it a chronic condition?"

Mathieu scrubbed everything away and drew one last doctor, slightly smaller than the rest. He pointed to himself.

"You're a doctor too," America said. "So… What? Were they… training you? You were an apprentice?"

"Apprentice, oui!" Mathieu said. He had heard that word before from the rare English-speaking patients he had every now and then.

"Great! See, we're getting somewhere!" America said. "The next one is really important."

He wrote '149' in the dirt. "That's how old I am. If I did the math right, which I'm pretty sure I did."

"149 what? Is that how many people you stole from? Do you keep some sort of creepy victim count?" Mathieu asked.

America frowned. The other boy didn't get it. How could he make it clearer? He didn't know how to draw a year. He could barely draw trees, much less intangible concepts.

"Um… Okay, so, this is the year now, 1756, you see? And I am pretty sure I was born in 1607. You write it like this and then it becomes a math problem, see, 'cause they're being subtracted. And then you get my age. 149!"

"Oh I see, you're telling me your age," Mathieu said. He took the stick to write his own in response, only to realize he had lost track of the years somewhere along the way. He didn't remember how old he was.

After a few minutes of solid thinking, he wrote '152'. The English boy cried out excitedly and started up his constant flow of words again. He had used one phrase several times by now, "just like me". Mathieu was beginning to understand what it meant, no translation needed.

* * *

What he had intended to be a few days' visit stretched into a few weeks, and at some point Mathieu just decided never to go back to that particular doctor. Pointless anyway, and the punishment wasn't worth it.

The two boys learned the basics of each other's languages within a week. Mathieu was pretty sure that was unnaturally fast. But he had no frame of reference, and even if it was, that trait couldn't hurt anybody. In fact, it proved very helpful. The two of them switched between languages fluidly, using whatever was most convenient at the moment.

"We never exchanged names," he blurted out as he realized it. "All this stuff we said, and we forgot our names. That was rather rude of me. I'm Mathieu Bellerose."

"Huh. I guess we did skip that," America said. "Nice to meet you, Mathieu Bellerose." He went back to trying to get the fire to light.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What's your name?"

"Oh," America said. "I, uh, don't have one."

"You're way too old not to have a name," he said. It was true that lots of colonial children went without names, but never for very long. Usually only a few years at the most. There was just so much disease in the New World that parents didn't want to get attached to a child that was only going to die in a few months, weeks, days. Hours. The logic was that it's harder to get attached to something that has no name. So kids were nameless, anonymous creatures until they proved their strength, their hardiness, their will to survive. It truly was survival of the fittest. There was an early-on, formative time period when American kids weren't given names, they earned them.

149 years was well past the age range for this. He had definitely proven he wasn't going to die off too young; someone should have named him in all that time.

"I am not having a nameless friend. That is shady, and sad."

"I just don't have a name. How'd you get yours anyway?"

"That family that took me in, my sister Colette, she gave it to me," he said. "This just means you get to choose your own name. That's much more fun anyway. Pick something."

"I can't! It's like trying to choose one word to sum up everything that you are. No, it's not _like_ that, it _is_ that," he said. "There's not gonna be any names that are good enough. They're all just sounds and names are supposed to be meaningful. Like, yours is from your sister, so it has meaning for you."

"If nothing is good enough, then it doesn't matter what you choose. Just pick the first one that pops into your head," Mathieu suggested.

"Alright," America said thoughtfully. "How about… Alfred. Alfred Jones."

"Great," Mathieu stuck out his hand to shake. "Pleasant meeting you, Alfred Jones."

"The same to you, Mathieu Bellerose."


	12. Chapter 12

"You told me you stopped stealing from people," Mathieu mumbled bitterly. He felt so awkward being here. He felt like everyone was judging him, and he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

"I did. I'm not stealing from a person; I am stealing from the British Empire," Alfred said. "Smuggling is a good deed, Mattie, remember that."

"In what world is smuggling considered a good thing?!"

"It's the only way to get Britain to listen! We have no representative in Parliament, no way of saying what we do and do not agree to. Rioting and rebelling every now and then is the only way we can make ourselves heard. It's the only thing that keeps England from forgetting about us entirely in that huge empire of theirs."

They were at a large, sheltered cove that served as the local hub of smuggling activity. It was one of the thousands of hidden bays along the New England coast that was just perfect for such an activity. The customs officials could never track down all of them, and as soon as they did find one, the smugglers simply moved on and found another cove.

It was where Alfred stored his small rowboat he used to meet the Dutch ship out on the ocean. At any given moment, there could as many as seven ships docked in the cove, though many more used and just weren't there that often. Most of the smugglers were Dutch, but there was a good number of Spanish and French as well.

Captain didn't use this cove because even though he would save a little from not having to pay Alfred anymore, it was far more lucrative to be marked as an English ship and able to sell his goods openly in market. His products of course cost far less since they had no duties on them, and they sold out fast as lightning when the colonists didn't have to go to a black market to get their cheap tea. It was very obvious it had been smuggled, but the colonists had no qualms about that. In fact, it almost seemed to _improve_ business.

Mathieu climbed into the rowboat after Alfred, muttering the entire time. Alfred had told him he was a merchant now. It had been believable, given how he always came "home" with an overabundance of tea and some meager supplies and food. He assumed he had traded for them. Apparently he had, just not legally.

Alfred had said his job was boring to do alone and invited Mathieu to join him on one of his days off from being a low-paid servant in one of higher class houses of Boston. And that was how he ended up straining his muscles on the rows, ocean spray soaking him and a fierce morning wind biting into his bones.

They pulled up alongside the huge ship. Ropes were let down, and they hooked them to the ends of their little boat. They clung tightly to their seats, and unseen sailors above tugged their end of the ropes, dragging the boat into the air until it was level with the ship's deck.

Surprisingly, the captain was waiting to meet them. His huge pirate-esque hat and scarf combined to completely obscure his face. The crew was always changing and being replaced, but the captain stayed the same throughout the nearly two decades they had had this arrangement. Alfred rarely interacted with him personally, which was great, as he had yet to mention how his English liaison didn't seem to age. He _had_ to have noticed. But he said nothing. Maybe he thought if he turned Alfred in, then Alfred would do the same to him. It was the only explanation he could come up with.

"Our arrangement might be ending soon," the captain said curtly.

"What? Why?" Alfred protested.

"Didn't you hear the news? You read the paper, correct?"

"I can't afford the newspaper," he scoffed. It wasn't something he could easily steal, and Mathieu had this annoying habit of insisting they pay for things whenever possible. Their particular situation didn't allow for luxuries such as newspapers, even now that the Stamp Act had been repealed. Besides, anything truly important would be passed on through word of mouth.

"They've passed a new law. Calling it the Tea Act. The British East India Company now has an absolute monopoly over the colonial tea market. Prices are actually cheaper for you guys now. I don't think I'll have much of a business here any longer," the captain said.

"Well, that's unfortunate. I guess you'll just have to stop smuggling now and get a normal job in town like I have," Mathieu said quickly.

"No way!" Alfred said. "They can't do that! Haven't they wrecked the economy enough already? It's bad enough they cut off trade with everyone else, now this? That ain't right."

"It's Britain. What did you expect," Mathieu said dryly. The Thirteen Colonies weren't being fairly treated. But it could be so much worse. He had seen how Britain could be so much crueler. He had been on the first fleet of deportation ships. He had seen fingers and toes turn black with cold. He had seen people dying of starvation, fighting brutally for a scrap of bread when they were docked right next to a city, a city they couldn't access. Life-giving supplies were so close, but they weren't allowed to disembark.

They called it the Great Expulsion, or the Great Upheaval. There had been nothing great about it.

Alfred caught his expression and remembered what had brought his friend to Massachusetts in the first place. His own face darkened.

"I won't stand for this. I'm going to do something about it," he promised.

* * *

"I am officially boycotting tea," Alfred announced proudly. They were back at the clearing, having finished getting the Dutch goods passed through customs, for possibly the last time.

Mathieu rolled his eyes. "Tea is the only thing you drink. Last week you ran out of food but still refused to barter away your tea. You went without food for the sake of tea. You won't last one hour without it."

"It's not the 'only' thing I drink," he said. "I have rum sometimes."

"Mhmm."

"Just you wait. Lots of other people are doing it too. Pretty soon, they're gonna start losing money. Then England will _have_ to listen to us."

"Only in America do you riot _against_ cheaper tea."

Alfred huffed. "It's only cheaper now so that people won't get mad about it. The second Britain goes to war— _again_ —they'll jack up the prices to pay for it. And there ain't a thing we can do about it."

"Except this, apparently." New England certainly was different from how New France had been. More rights, more people, more violence, more rebellion. More of everything. More, more, more. It would take some getting used to.

* * *

"I told you so."

Alfred refused to reply, glaring into his teacup. The more expensive Dutch tea had sold out almost instantly. The colonists had gladly paid extra to break the law, finding much greater value in the opportunity to annoy England. His own supply had run out fast. Way too fast.

What he was drinking had been imported straight from England.

He took another angry sip. "Tea's just really good, okay?"

Mathieu sighed. "Look, you really want to do something? I heard there are three ships coming into the harbor tonight, all loaded down with tea."

"So?"

"So, I also heard that the townspeople aren't going to let them unload," he grinned wickedly. "There's going to be a tea party. Do you want to go?"

* * *

"Do I look like an Indian?" Alfred asked. He was in an awful disguise that looked nothing like what any native tribe wore.

"No. You look like an English boy in a badly made costume," Mathieu said bluntly. He was dressed in the same manner. "But this way at least they won't be able to identify us."

"Perfect," Alfred splashed a tinful of water on the fire and they headed out.

At the harbor, three ships were docked, as promised. The citizens of Boston surrounded them, an angry mob refusing to yield, keeping the sailors trapped on their ships. It seemed like the whole town had shown up. The heat of the people and the torches was so great they almost didn't notice the cold December wind coming off of the sea.

Mathieu warily noticed how many soldiers there were. More specifically, he noticed their guns. The three trade ships were surrounded by armed British ships.

"We're so gonna get shot," he said. He couldn't believe Alfred had talked him into coming with him. He never did stuff like this. It was such a bad idea. Defying Britain while surrounded by some of its navy, arguably the best navy in the world? This was suicide.

"So what? We'll get better," his companion said. "Fire away, ya lousy Redcoats!"

Giving a whooping warcry, he raised his tomahawk high in the air and charged through the crowd, barging onto the nearest ship.

Mathieu shook his head in disbelief. This was not happening. All the American colonists must have a death wish, every last one of them.

When in Rome…

He raised his own hatchet and howled, sprinting to the same ship Alfred was on. A large crowd of people were now joining in. They had all come prepared, disguises and face paint concealing their identities, axes and hatchets and tomahawks in hand. A good seventy people rushed the boats.

"Mattie! Over here!" Alfred called. He stood next to a huge stack of crates, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Don't just toss them overboard, cut them open first."

To demonstrate, he slammed his tomahawk down on one. The planks shattered into jagged splinters going all directions. He lifted its broken remnants to the side of the ship and shook the box, dumping all of its contents out before tossing it into the ocean.

There was chaos throughout the entire harbor. Energy filled the air as much as the tea filled the water. The trade ships' crews were nowhere to be seen, hiding, captives on their own boats. The colonists were running wild, hacking things to pieces with manic glee, egged on by their neighbors and family on the shore. The mob there hadn't dispersed. It had only gotten more riled up, jeering at the Redcoats and shouting loud support for the rebels.

The Redcoats themselves stayed put on their ships, doing nothing. They watched in horror as the ships next to theirs could only endure the attack. Fury framed almost every one of them. Members of the famed British military, the very ones who created an empire on which the sun never sets, could do nothing.

They say don't bring a knife to a gun fight, which was precisely what the colonists had done. But the rule doesn't apply when the knife is really an axe and the person wielding it is insane.

Alfred was buzzed like you wouldn't believe. He was having the time of his life. He may be small compared to most others here (though he was pretty sure he was entering a growth spurt), but his super strength served him well. He crushed entire boxes in just one swing, a feat that earned him fearful respect in the eyes of the other rebels.

He felt a bit like that day he jumped off a cliff—before he realized he couldn't fly. Only it was magnified a million times stronger now. It was an exhilarating rush: he was high on the most potent, most addictive drug in the world, the thrill of adrenaline only making it that much more intoxicating. It was the greatest high in the world, the chosen drug of world leaders, the all-powerful addiction that had started entire wars: power.

 _Power._

And oh, he was hooked.

342 chests of tea and several hours later, the Boston Harbor was full of faintly scented brown liquid, sloshing against ships and staining their hulls. While other towns had seen similarly extreme reactions, this one was certainly the most dramatic. It would not soon be forgotten. By anyone.

* * *

"What do you mean I can't be in the army?" Alfred asked indignantly.

"You're too young. I'm not sending a child to die in a war their parents started," the Continental officer said. "I'd rather send you two boys back to your mother now instead of later in a pine box."

"What if I can guarantee that won't happen?" Alfred asked. Mathieu smacked him on the arm. Normal people couldn't guarantee they wouldn't die in war. They had both learned the hard way what the cost of being abnormal was. It was foolish to arouse suspicion like that.

"Sorry, no can do."

"Lots of people aren't 'old enough' and _they_ get to fight!" he whined.

"Everyone who has signed up has been eighteen or older," the officer said.

"Oh, come on! At least twenty of the guys who've gone through here have been sixteen or seventeen. I'm only one year younger than them, what's the harm?" Earlier, he had lied and told the officer they were fifteen when in reality they were thirteen. It was the oldest they could reasonably pass as.

Not that they actually passed as fifteen. Mathieu was sure it was very obvious that they were just really tall thirteen-year-olds, with all the natural awkwardness that comes with it. Alfred had an overly conspicuous gap between his teeth. Mathieu had a thick pair of glasses he had broken and repaired countless times until they sat permanently crooked and scratched on his face. Both of them had ill-fitting clothes and that special clumsiness that comes from everything being a different size in proportion to them now.

"Alfred, come on. They were never going to let us join the army. It was a pipe dream from the start," he said quietly.

His friend's face fell. He had been so set on being a soldier these past few years, after things kept escalating and escalating after the Boston Tea Party. War had been declared, a war with the goal of forcing Britain to acknowledge their rights as Englishmen.

Some people were saying England would never see the colonists as equal. They thought the war would do nothing if they didn't declare independence, a radical, controversial idea. They said that those across the water would always see the colonists as 'less English' than they were, and that idea would be reflected in how they were treated for centuries to come.

Alfred didn't agree with the radicals. Call him an optimist. The army was a just-in-case measure as a reaction to the tension from British military occupation; most people were hoping it wouldn't come to that.

After all, this past July, the Second Continental Congress had sent the Olive Branch Petition to King George III. It declared the colonies' absolute loyalty to the crown and asked for a peaceful resolution—for both sides to put everything behind them and start over. What could possibly go wrong with that?


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** This is really a transition chapter for all the stuff that happens next, and I really don't like how it turned out. Also, it mentions self-hatred, self-harm (in a way), gore, and mental illness. It's twice as long as normal though.

* * *

"They didn't even read it. An offer of peace, all rebellion would stop, and the king refused to even open the letter," Alfred said incredulously. "He literally doesn't want to hear a single word we have to say."

Mathieu then so eloquently described the king and all other Brits using a string of French words Alfred had never heard before.

"Sorry. I forgot you were English too. I didn't mean…" he said.

"No, it's fine, I knew what you meant," Alfred said. "You know what I think? I think that if England is so darn insistent on treating the colonists as less English than they are, then maybe it's high time we started acting like it."

"You mean… Like become independent or something?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah! Maybe it's not such a crazy idea."

"No, it is," Mathieu said. "Alfred, Britain is the most powerful military force in the world. They have conquered a quarter of the entire globe. They _always_ win in the end."

* * *

Thirteen raggedy-looking preteens stood united in a line, their human army behind them, waiting. Rain poured down, drilling into the soft mud they kept slipping in, making the already dreary day that much more dismal.

England looked down the barrel of his gun at all of them with a sense of surreality. His colonies. His children. They had harsh, determined glints in their eyes, a silent promise they wouldn't be backing down.

They had worked together and declared independence 7 years ago. England had read it as a declaration of war. Them working together—that had been a shock. They were usually too busy fighting each other to ever think of such a thing. It was preposterous. Carolina alone had nearly descended into anarchy over regional differences; England had had to split the colony in two, North and South, to avoid a civil war.

But now here they were, all thirteen, united for the very first time against a common enemy. An enemy that had once been their greatest ally, protector, friend. Brother. Father.

 _He had been the one_ who explained the situation to their bosses in a way that made them listen, his own king by his side. _He was the one_ who read them bedtime stories when they had nightmares, before tucking them in safely to a nice warm bed. _He was the one_ who had brought over entire ships full of supplies to give them the best conditions possible, given the circumstances—though he suspected North Carolina never forgave him for his tardiness at Roanoke. _He was the one_ who patched up all the scraped knees and "injured" or broken toys. _He was the one_ who taught them everything they needed to know about being nations. _He was the one_ who made sure they were as safe as possible in the dangerous New World. _He was the one_ who dealt with all the ignorant humans so the colonies wouldn't have to. _He was the one_ who had found all of them, alone and scared in the woods, and given them a home and a family. _He was the one reason they were alive at all._

"Don't you get it? You can never hope to win this!" he shouted. The wind caught his words and carried them away.

"You aren't in charge of us anymore," Virginia replied. She was the oldest and one of the ones who had a gun. Not all of them did, and the few guns that were in their supply were stolen from raids on British forts.

All but two of them were barefoot. Their uniforms were threadbare, or sometimes they only had a partial uniform and the rest was civilian clothing. It was a miracle they'd survived the intense New England winters like that, much less been strong enough to fight his well-cared-for troops.

This was a mouse taunting a cat. A gazelle mocking a lion. The Biblical David going against Goliath.

This was insanity.

Suddenly, the past seven years, the past 100 years, the past 1000 years—they were all too much. Frustration welled up inside his chest. He rushed the line of colonies, bayonet extended and ready to slice.

As skilled as he was, thirteen against one still made for a quick struggle. New York managed to shove him to the ground, the blade of his bayonet mere inches from his throat. The others followed suit.

"It's over."

* * *

Mathieu ran to the clearing, stolen newspaper in hand. He hadn't set out to steal it. But he had seen the headline and known they _had_ to have it. Having no money on his person, he decided to just take one. The vendor should have seen him, by all logical counts, but for some reason he hadn't. It was as if Mathieu had been invisible, or something. As if that made sense.

Alfred was sitting cross-legged on the ground, painstakingly sharpening his knife. Mathieu tossed the newspaper to land in his lap.

"Look! They won! They actually won!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Alfred asked breathlessly. His eyes devoured the words on the page like a fire devours sawdust.

"We won! We really won! Oh my God, this is amazing! We're independent!"

"To independence!" Mathieu shouted to the sky.

"To independence!" Alfred cackled, echoing him.

They broke out the rum and decided to blow off all responsibilities for the rest of the night. They danced, sang loudly and badly, and played tag in the forest.

In October of 1783, news of the Treaty of Paris reached the colonies, and they celebrated independence all over again. Of course, July 4th, 1776 was still called Independence Day. It had been when the colonists first agreed to fight for independence and every colony—state, now—had ratified the Declaration. In the cockiest way possible, they had celebrated their independence then, treating it as a sure-fire thing the moment they realized they wanted it. Against all odds, they had been right to do so.

* * *

Alfred and Mathieu decided to move out west. All that land the colonists had fought for, given their lives for during the French and Indian War, only to have Britain say they weren't allowed to use it—it was theirs now, free for them to live on if they so choose.

The name Ohio Valley was changed to the Northwest Territory, and it was further divided into five other territories. The one they ended up in was called Illinois. They built a shack of a house for themselves next to some other settlers. More and more people kept coming. Soon the dirt path that connected the houses was called Main Street, and other dirt roads were made in a grid going out from there. They watched the collection of shacks get refurnished over and over until they were actual houses. Nice ones, too—for the West, at least. They saw firsthand as the community became a village, the village became a town, the town became a city called Springfield.

Eventually, the territory as a whole was settled enough that it met all the prerequisites. The government applied for statehood, and Illinois was the 21st state in the Union as of December 3rd, 1818.

They had a house; a real house for the first time ever. They grew enough in their backyard plot to sustain them throughout the year and even sell some of the excess and use the profits to buy a few basic necessities. They could confidently assume they would live to the next day even if they weren't immortal. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, things were going great.

So why did Alfred feel so miserable all the time? It made no sense. He felt physically ill more and more often, for seemingly no reason. His lifestyle was considerably healthier now, with a roof over his head, dry and clean clothes to wear, and food grown right outside. Yet he got sicker and sicker.

He had been keeping it a secret. The only thing he ever genuinely tried to hide from Mathieu. His life so far had been so much harder than Alfred's, with so much more death. He had died twice, both times in much more excruciating ways than Alfred had. He had gained a family only to have them turn on him for his oddities. He had been passed from family to family for decades, knowing it was doomed before it began. He had touched so many lives, and all those lives had ended by now. He had witnessed every sort of death imaginable, up close and personal, and he had done his best to ease their pain, being brave so others could draw from that strength.

It would be unbelievably selfish to tell him, to add to his troubles. Mathieu did so much for Alfred. He got him to stop stealing. He refused to put up with any of his crap and would call him out on it. He often proved to be the voice of reason. It was like a having a second conscience—a very sarcastic, French-speaking conscience. Alfred could never hurt his conscience.

In truth, his reluctance to tell him had nothing to do with Mathieu. Mathieu could take it. What was one more death—for Alfred was almost certain he was dying—to a guy like him? He didn't want to tell him because then he would have to say it out loud. He would have to hear it and see Mathieu's face, the mirror image of his own, accept the reality of it. Alfred didn't think he was strong enough to bear that, plain and simple.

Besides, he had his own theory as to what was going on. It was a term he'd heard Mathieu use a few times: psychosomatic symptoms. When someone's mind is sick, the body will find a way to reflect it.

He hated himself so much. There was no worse creature to ever walk this earth than Alfred Jones, and he knew that for a fact. He also knew slavery was one of the worst kinds of evil anyone had ever come up with. But abolishing slavery would destroy the Southern economy and way of life. Those old states had not gone to war with Britain only to be bossed around by the North, trading one distant ruler for another. Slavery goes against the freedoms promised in the Declaration and the Constitution, it was un-American. It was an American tradition.

It sometimes seemed like he had a voice in his head that disagreed with everything he said and did. Some of his thoughts were like they had come from a completely different person. He wondered how much of his thoughts were truly his own.

He agreed equally with both sides. Slavery was wrong. Slavery was necessary. He was a walking contradiction, and he hated it. He hated it so much because it made him hate himself. The voice in his head hated him. He hated the voice in his head right back.

He felt so on-edge, wanting to punch someone, wanting to get in a fight and blow off some steam. But the only person he wanted to fight was safe inside his brain. The most terrifying things are always nonphysical, untouchable. People who can't be punched in the face have an unfair advantage: they can destroy his life, but he has no way of returning the favor.

Was the voice in his head truly another person sharing his body? Could they see what he saw, feel what he felt? If he got hurt, would it hurt them too?

Did it really matter as long as his disgusting self got to bleed?

* * *

Alfred sauntered into the saloon, daring anybody to meet his eyes. Mathieu wouldn't notice he was gone; he was spending the day helping out the local physician, like he did every Saturday. Alfred usually hid out in the library on those days, nose in a book and a stack of others by his side, waiting to be read. He had been really interested in mechanical engineering lately.

But not today.

"Whiskey, please," he said to the barkeep, who nodded and poured him a glass, setting the bottle on the counter. He downed it in one gulp and turned his attention to the other patrons.

Who here was strong enough to give him a run for his money? No one, really, not with strength like his. And whatever wounds he did get would just heal immediately. Still. It would at least hurt.

"Hey, Baldy!" he shouted at the largest man in the saloon. "Freakin' fight me."

The man merely rolled his eyes and went back to his conversation. Alfred swallowed down the second glass of whiskey he had poured and marched over, shoving the man's shoulder.

"Hey, I was talking to you," he said.

"I'm not going to fight a child," he said, refusing to be baited.

"I ain't a child! I'm fifteen."

"Whatever, kid. Go pick on someone your own size. Schoolhouse is down the street." The man's friends laughed, chuckling at the overconfident teenager.

"Don't call me 'kid'," Alfred said darkly. His hand shot out and pushed one man out of his seat and onto the floor, all while holding the big guy's gaze.

The man stood up, drawing to his full height of almost six and a half feet. He had to weigh at least two, three times as much as Alfred did. "Why don't you do yourself a favor and get lost before you start something you can't finish?" he asked. It wasn't a question.

"Why don't you try and make me?" And with that, Alfred swung a punch at the huge man's jaw, sending him staggering backwards. Shocked at his strength, the man's group of friends leapt up to join in.

Six well-muscled frontiersmen surrounded him. Alfred kicked and punched and at one point he bit someone's leg, but he never used his full strength. He never even came close to it. He fought just well enough to keep the fight going.

Blows landed all over his body. Bruises didn't have time to form before the cells repaired themselves, tiny bursts of anesthetic washing the pain away.

Crap. These injuries were too minor; they healed too fast.

One man gripped his arm and yanked, snarling in his face as the shoulder dislocated. Alfred gasped, tears stinging his eyes, and shoved his shoulder back in place. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. Someone else took advantage of his momentary stillness to deliver a a swift kick to his legs, the spurs of his boots tearing his trousers.

Alfred picked up a barstool and brought it down on someone's back. They fell comically to the floor, limbs splayed out like a crushed bug. One of that guy's friends slammed a fist into Alfred's stomach as hard as he could. They were getting more enraged by the second. The situation was rapidly escalating.

Three men rushed him at once, trying to hold back his arms. He slammed two of their heads together, throwing the other one off with ease.

The huge bald man lifted him up by his shirt collar and pinned him against the wall. He switched his hand from Alfred's shirt to his throat, not caring how much his grip tightened when he used his other arm to deliver tight, close punches.

His hands hovered over his throat, trying to find a way to loosen the man's grip without breaking his own neck. Finding none, he settled for digging his nails into his attacker's arm, pinching until he drew blood and then further until the man howled and let him go.

He sprang away into the center of the bar, moving on to a new target. But the second he was out in the open and accessible, the other five threw themselves on him, fighting as a whole and using every trick they had.

He went down and they tried to keep him that way, helpless, but it wouldn't last long and they knew it. Between the flying limbs and fists, Alfred saw one of them take his gun out of its holster.

Desperate, he tried to reach his own gun, it was just at his hip; but they were holding him down, he couldn't reach, only a few more inches…

 _Bang!_

* * *

The door was unlocked from the outside and two doctors rushed in, key to the only occupied cell in hand.

The older doctor continued flying into action, but Mathieu stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at the prisoner, the only person currently incarcerated at Springfield's juvenile detention center. He was covered with dried blood from wounds no longer there, the left side of his shirt still dripping wet. His eyes were closed, breaths shallow. Asleep, passed out from pain. The other doctor would assume he was on the brink of death—and maybe he was. Maybe he had already passed that brink.

The doctor took out his scissors to cut off Alfred's blood-soaked shirt and expose the wound. Mathieu realized his mistake and snapped out of his trance.

"Um, I've got this one, you go take care of the other prisoners," he said.

The doctor looked at him like he was nuts. "This one's been shot! I can patch up their cuts and scrapes later; he needs immediate surgery."

"And I'm better at that—no offense," he said, realizing a second too late that that was rude. "You've got six guys who will need stitches and broken bones set—I can take care of this one patient. It's a logical division of labor."

Suspicious, but knowing he was right, the other doctor repacked his supplies and left, the heavy prison door clanging loudly shut behind him.

Mathieu filled a tin cup with icy water from the sink. He dumped the water on Alfred's face, feeling no sympathy as he jolted awake.

"Talk," he said, once Alfred stopped sputtering.

"I get _shot_ , and that's how you wake me up? Real considerate, _bro_."

"What did you do to make six complete strangers want to kill you?"

"What makes you think I'm the one in the wrong here?"

"Ah yes, I'm sure that you, Alfred f****** Jones, known outlaw, did nothing to provoke this. Six grown men decided to gang up on a teenager- who was minding his own business- for no reason at all," he said, completely monotone.

Alfred sighed and moved to sit up. He yelped and fell back on the cot, clutching his stomach in pain.

"Did you not heal?!" Mathieu asked in panic. He fumbled for his scissors and cut open Alfred's shirt, but the skin wasn't broken. There was no injury to tend.

"What's the problem? You healed like normal, how are you still in pain?" he asked. His mind raced, searching for something, anything he might have learned that could explain this. Agony equal to the original injury _after_ it was completely healed?

"Bullet's still inside," Alfred said through clenched teeth. Tears ran freely down his face.

Mathieu's eyes widened. There had been no exit wound. The bullet had gone inside, then the tissue and organs and blood vessels had reformed around it. When Alfred moved, the bullet had shifted and torn and ruptured who knows how many organs.

He cursed under his breath. "You aren't going to like this," he warned.

He got out the flask of alcohol he let patients drink from before surgery. It was the best option he had for numbing pain. Alfred took a few quick sips. It burned his throat, and he ended up coughing and wincing from the movement.

Mathieu used a wet rag to scrub away the blood on his patient's stomach, eliciting screams that he blocked out. His way of practicing medicine was very different from his peers, built on personal experience in the field rather than long-held truths. Hundreds of doctors in France were also starting to question what the "masters" taught, instead preferring to study and document their own findings. The profession was rapidly losing trust and respect in the public's eye, especially with so many doctors advocating the despised "heroic medicine": draining the body of fluids and blood because all diseases were really the same disease- an overstimulation of blood and nerves.

That, and the grave robbing that medical students engaged in so as to study cadavers.

So he cleaned the skin and surgery tools before operating. He didn't know why, but people died of infection less often when he did that. It was just something he had noticed. He had had hundreds of years to observe, of course he had developed a few quirks to his technique in that time.

He drew his scalpel across the skin, hoping he was looking in the right place. Blood was everywhere, obstructing his view. It would take forever to find one little bullet.

Nevertheless, he looked around for it, ignoring the screams that caused. Exploratory surgery was the worst. He had no way of knowing where that little lead ball was, though; it had to be done.

He couldn't find it. It must be inside an organ. But which one? He didn't want to have to slice open ten different organs before he found it.

The surgical opening started shrinking, and he pulled his hand out in shock. The patient's body was healing itself already. That was a first. He had never had a wound close itself; that was usually his job. He reopened the cut. He would have to work fast.

"Alfred," he struggled to keep his voice steady. "I can't find the bullet. I need you to… I need you to tell me where it is. Reach into the wound. Touch where it hurts the most."

He couldn't believe he was asking this of a patient. _This_ patient. He was supposed to be a better doctor than this.

With great effort, Alfred placed a shaky hand on his kidney. He hissed in a sharp breath when Mathieu cut into it, but soon after fell silent. Shock was setting in from the pain. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Mathieu pulled out the offending bullet, a warped little thing smaller than his thumbnail. He didn't bother putting in stitches to close up. It would take longer to put them in than it would to let the holes close themselves.

Mathieu went and sat in the corner of the cell farthest from Alfred. He curled up in a little ball as small as possible. He didn't want to think. He didn't want anything to happen. Life needed to pause until he was ready to deal with it. He was not ready to deal with the dead body on the opposite side of the cell.

He doesn't know how much time passed. It seemed like years. It was probably less than an hour, maybe much shorter. Alfred came back to life, waking up as easily as if from sleep. He sat up painlessly and took in the scene.

Bloody surgical tools surrounded him. A bullet was on the floor. So was Mathieu, but much farther away.

Mathieu was a large guy, tall for his age and built like an ox after that growth spurt both of them had gone through. But he managed to look very small indeed in that moment.

"Why'd you get in that fight," he asked quietly. So quietly. As if anything loud would shatter everything, blow his world to pieces all over again.

"I wanted to get hurt." Alfred couldn't be anything but honest. He owed him that, at least. "I hate myself."

"Why?"

"I…," he started. The words were hard to find. "Because I deserve it. I feel like it's killing me. It's that whole slavery issue… I support it wholeheartedly. The North is treating the South the same way Britain treated all of us. Slavery is a vile, despicable stain on humanity. If not everyone has freedom, then no one has freedom. It should have been abolished long ago."

"So… Are you for it or against it?"

He slumped back against the wall. "Both."

Mathieu sighed. Alfred always had such strong opinions, even when he was completely undecided. He knew it was bound to cause trouble one day. Looks like that day was today.

"Maybe what you need is a change of scenery. Everything in the east is very… politically charged. Let's get away from the tension. We'll go so far west that we never have to hear anything about slavery ever again, whether it's good news or bad. You can't hate yourself over something you've put completely out of your head and forgotten about."

"You really think that'll work?"

"Yes. Getting away from everything, going someplace less stressful—always a good thing. Worst case scenario is nothing changes, in which case, I'll think of something. I'll always be there to bail you out, you know that, right?"

"Of course. We're best friends. You're like a brother to me," he gave a bittersweet smile. "You certainly look the part."

Mathieu gave a weak smile of his own. They were always getting comments like that from people who assumed they were twins.

"We shouldn't go alone; it's not safe. I heard those two rich guys—Jacob and George Donner—are leading a group out to California in a few weeks. We can go with them."

Alfred nodded. He was growing to like this idea. "Yeah. Let's join the Donner party."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Thanks so much for all the reviews! You thought this chapter would be an angsty mess, but in reality the first part of the Donner Party's journey was easy, so this is just stupid, bros-on-a-roadtrip fluff for now. Next chapter is the angsty mess. Also, in the 1800s women's hair was basically treated like a private part.

* * *

Over the decades, Mathieu and Alfred had managed to build a fairly nice house for themselves and had it completely furnished. The house, two horses, and a little money in the bank were the extent of their worldly assets. They sold almost all of it.

Lots of the furniture had to go because it was too bulky to take with them. A house in Illinois would do them no good in California, and they got a lot of money for it. They took all their money out of their separate bank accounts and used some of it to buy a covered wagon. They then sorted all their belongings into what could and could not be brought with them. Everything they were taking had to be able to fit together in the wagon, it had to be sturdy enough to survive the journey, and it had to have enough sentimental value to be worth it.

Their wagon was practically empty in the end, by most standards. They were usually jam-packed with everything owned by every member of a family, resulting in almost no room for the actual people.

In a few weeks, they linked up with the rest of the caravan and set out on the Oregon Trail. There was almost 500 wagons. Lots of people had waited all year to make sure they left at just the right time. On average, the journey took four to six months, and timing was imperative. Leaving too early could mean getting stuck in mud or an overflowing river, as well as possibly not finding enough spring grass for the horses and cattle. Leaving too late could mean getting snowed in.

They chose to set out in the middle of May, on the late end of the migration season. The Donner Party was the very last to go, in fact.

Alfred insisted on driving the team himself as often as possible, as he was- in his own words- "a horse expert." Mathieu was just as good a driver, if not better, because _he_ wasn't always showing off and trying out new and untested tricks. But whatever, if Alfred wanted to do all the work, then let him.

Mathieu was totally the better driver.

The trip started out in the best conditions you could hope to get. They were slowed down by heavy spring rains and a river full to bursting that caused some trouble, but that was to be expected, and it didn't have enough impact to matter.

* * *

"Are you two boys travelling alone?"

"Yes, ma'am," Alfred said cordially. They had been behind the same wagon for the entire trip. The wagon had nine people in it, five of them kids and one an elderly man who was slowly dying of consumption.

After three weeks of sitting, the kids were bored out of their minds. The younger ones were pouty and fitful, the baby wouldn't stop crying, and the older ones no longer saw anything wrong with oversharing and talking to complete strangers.

"My name is Martha, what's yours?" one of them asked. She wore a simple blue frock and her hair up in coils, signifying she considered herself an adult, despite looking around the same age as Mathieu and Alfred.

The boys raised their eyebrows at that. Martha must think very... highly, of how mature she was. It was odd her parents permitted it. Maybe she was married, and thus allowed to dress like an adult.

"Alfred."

"Mathieu. Nice to meet you."

"I'm Sylvia," her friend—cousin, as they had heard— said, not to be excluded. She further opened the back covering of their wagon so they could talk more easily.

"Are you guys excited to see California?"

"Of course. I just hope it's as good as they say," Alfred joked. "After we cross the desert, it's supposed to be all hills and beautiful valleys and beaches. I hear even the ocean is prettier than the one back east."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. There are flowers everywhere, and everything grows there. Just past the mountains, it's a veritable paradise."

"Veritable?"

"Um. It's a— it's a very pretty place," he said, not knowing how to explain the word. "Can't imagine it could be prettier than you though."

He winked and leaned back, forgetting there was no back to the seat. He fell backwards into the wagon, but held tight to the reins. The horses reared, hooves flying in the air dangerously close to the other wagon, whose occupants scurried back to safety.

Alfred quickly adapted, flying back into place and reasserting control over the horses. He whispered soft words to calm them down. Mathieu's eyes darted around to the other wagons. Thankfully, none of the horses had been spooked. A stampede could kill the entire party.

"It's alright. I got it under control," Alfred smiled confidently. He ran a hand through his already messy hair. Nervous habit.

"That's it. Give me the reins; I am in charge now," Mathieu said. "Clearly, you can't be trusted to drive."

"What? No way!" he said. "It was one slip-up. It won't happen again. Have you ever known me to make the same mistake twice?"

"No. You're very creative in your stupidity," he said under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "Listen, since you just absolutely _have_ to drive, you can't be badly flirting at the same time. Either shut up and focus or hand over the reins."

"Excuse me? _Badly_ flirting? Like you could do any better."

Mathieu was about to retort, but just then the girls rejoined them, coming out from where they had run for safety when they thought the horses would trample them.

"Are you guys okay?" Sylvia asked. Her long blonde braid was now draped over her shoulder, reaching down to her elbow. It was customary for girls never to cut their hair, and by the time they were teenagers it would reach impressively long lengths. Mathieu thought hair looked better down in braids rather than all piled up so you can't see it, but that was clearly a minority opinion.

"Yeah, Alfred just fell over is all," he said. "He has trouble focusing on more than one thing at once, so we'd both appreciate it if you ladies ignored him while he drives."

Alfred had never felt so betrayed.

"You can still talk to me, though."

He could not believe what he was hearing.

Martha giggled. "Well, that's great. You seem really interesting."

That had to be a lie. Mathieu has said, what, three sentences to her? She couldn't really think he was interesting from three sentences.

To Alfred's utter dismay, Mathieu replied with some nonsensical line of poetry in French. Something about inner beauty and the worth of every individual or whatever, he didn't really catch it.

What did that even have to do with anything?

"You speak French?" Sylvia asked.

"I speak French too," Alfred blurted. To demonstrate, he continued in said language, "My friend is a total jerk and one time he punched a tree on a dare and broke his hand."

"Only after you did the exact same thing. And that wasn't even for a dare."

Sylvia tipped her head to the side. "Why does his French sound different from your French?"

In English, Mathieu explained, "Alfred learned Cadian French; I learned European."

"Cadian? Oh, do you mean Cajun?"

"Yes. That."

Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure how that had happened. On all logical accounts, Alfred's French should sound exactly the same as his own, since he was the one he learned it from. But for some reason, Alfred spoke like the Acadians in Louisiana and Mathieu did not.

The Acadians had initially been deported all across the Thirteen Colonies, but then that didn't work so after the first wave, the British sent them to France and England. Some managed to make it back to their homes, only to find them burned to the ground. Most ended up going to Spanish-controlled Louisiana, which was a good choice since Spain and France were allies and _they_ didn't demand absolute loyalty and there was a shared majority religion, unlike with England.

The term 'Acadian' had long since fallen out of use, replaced with Cadian, and now Cajun. Their dialect of French had changed drastically and adopted a very strong, very unique accent. By the time Louisiana became a U.S. territory, Alfred's French had grown to mimic it. It made no sense to Mathieu. _His_ French hadn't changed. And as far as he knew, Alfred had never even met any Cajuns; they had never lived anywhere near there. Yet he spoke their dialect.

"So is French your first language then?" Sylvia asked.

"Uh, yeah. I learned a couple English words from patients back in Canada, but mostly Alfred taught me."

"You're a doctor?"

He shrugged. "Sorta. I was an apprentice for a long time, started out pretty young. I learned everything that I could. I would start up my own practice, but I'm too young for anyone to take me seriously, you know?"

"I completely understand," Martha said. "I am sixteen, and I had been courting this boy back home for months, but Ma said I was too young to marry. Tons of girls get married at my age, or even younger. She just doesn't realize I am no longer a little kid. It's completely unfair."

Sylvia ignored her cousin. "Have you ever saved anybody's life?"

"A little. But they never would have made it if it hadn't been for their own strength of will. I just helped them along a bit."

"Oh, don't be so modest! You're a regular hero, aren't you?" asked Sylvia.

Alfred clenched the reins so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Mathieu ducked his head, a faint smile and blush on his face. "Um, I guess."

"Have you ever lost a patient?"asked Martha.

"A few times, yes. It was... It's never good."

"Are you okay talking about it, er...?"

Mathieu nodded, then told a gripping tale about a few of the patients he had lost over the years. He spoke so eloquently it was like they were actually there, and the emotion he had connected to the stories only furthered that effect. Occasionally, he forgot he wasn't just talking to Alfred like normal and slipped into French for a few words before catching himself. At one point, he got so choked up talking about a woman's miscarriage that it made Sylvia cry.

When the company stopped and made camp for the night, the two girls asked to join their campfire for dinner rather than their family's. They sat on either side of Mathieu, hanging off his every word and talking for hours. He was unused to the attention and kept blushing, which the girls thought was just _so endearing_.

In their eyes, Mathieu was a hero and Alfred was invisible.

He was so mad.

He had descended into bitter silence with the occasional snide comment, not that anyone had noticed. He ripped the top off a can of beans, slopping it into the pot on the fire.

"Whoa! Did you just tear that thing open with your bare hands?" Martha asked, eyeing the shredded, empty can.

"Uh... yeah?"

"Hm. Cool," she said. "Mathieu, you were saying?"

* * *

This continued on for a week. It became obvious to everyone but Martha that Mathieu would rather be alone with Sylvia but was too polite to say so. It was almost painful to watch.

Then a letter came. A letter, out here, in the middle of nowhere, delivered indiscriminately to all travelling parties by hired riders. It was by a Mr. Lansford W. Hastings. Despite the huge numbers in the party, soon they were all talking about it.

It said that the Mexican authorities in California would be hostile, and their safest bet would be to stick together. Safety in numbers and all that. Splitting off would be dangerous. But fortunately, Hastings had carved out a much safer new route, and it was a shortcut too— it went directly through the Wasatch mountains and Great Salt Lake Desert instead of around them. On top of it all, he would be waiting and willing at Fort Bridger to show them the way.

The whole camp was in debate that night. News of the offer had spread like wildfire. Dozens of families had heated debates over dinner, their words so loud they even drowned out the cicadas.

"So what do you think?" Alfred asked, absentmindedly stirring yet another pot of beans on the fire.

"I think you forgot to wash that knife," Mathieu replied. He was staring at the switchblade currently swirling around their dinner. "We're so gonna get food poisoning."

"About the letter. What do you think about the letter."

He considered it for a few moments before answering. "It's suspicious. I don't really see what this Lansing guy would gain by intentionally leading people astray, though, sounds like he's just in it for the adventure."

"No crime in that," Alfred shrugged. "I think it sounds cool. It's not like we'll be the very first people on the trail— clearly Hastings himself has in order to have it mapped. But still! Forging a new trail, going where no one else, taking the risks that no one else dares to— that's the true pioneer spirit."

"We could let someone else be the pioneers and we can take the normal path that everyone else uses," Mathieu suggested.

Alfred set down his tin of food so he could make grand hand gestures as he spoke. "But don't you want to make history?! Don't you want to live your life knowing that you took risks, that you bet it all, and that it was worth it? Didn't we leave Springfield because everyday life was getting nauseatingly mundane?"

"Pretty sure that's not why we left Springfield," he thought darkly, only to realize he had said it aloud.

Thankfully, Alfred continued like he hadn't even heard the comment. "Mathieu, both of us have lived hundreds of years already. Who knows how much longer we still have. Do you really want to spend all of that time always following the crowd, never breaking any rules? Come on. It's too long a life not to live a little."

He sighed. Of all the possible best friends out there in the world, of course his would be a con artist. Alfred sure knew how to market an idea.

"You're a bad influence."

"Sweet! So that's a yes!" He was practically buzzing with excitement.

"It's an I'll consider it."

"Ha ha! Yes!" Alfred gave a victory fist pump, fully confident in his ability to turn a maybe into a yes.

Just then, Sylvia approached, lingering uncertainly at the edge of their camp and twirling the end of her hair. "Hey um, can I talk to you?"

"Sure," Mathieu instantly put down his tin of food and followed her away from the caravan a bit to a shallow dip in the ground. It was very hard to have any semblance of privacy when travelling with enough people to fill an entire city. This was at least somewhere certain nosy relatives couldn't see or hear what they were saying.

"What is it? Are you alright? Did someone get hurt?" he asked.

"No, no nothing like that," she said. "It's just... My family is taking the cutoff. Is yours? Are we going to get split up? Because I don't want that."

"I don't want that either," he took her hands into his own. He had fallen for this girl, hard and fast. "Of course we're taking the cutoff."

"Really? I don't want to be the reason you changed your mind," she said warily.

He shook his head. "Alfred wanted to go that route too. I think the short cut is going to be safer, but if I agreed right away it would feed his ego too much."

Sylvia laughed merrily. "So this isn't goodbye?"

"Not even close," he assured her. Her fingers trailed up his arms and around to intertwine behind his neck. He slowly leaned in, drawing closer to her always sharp, curious green eyes.

* * *

When he got back to the wagon, he found Alfred tossing various bits of trash or plants into the fire and watching the different ways they burned. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Mathieu approach.

"Bro, what took so long? I thought you died or something. I was just about to go searching for you."

"Uh, we just had a lot to talk about is all."

"Hey, what's that thing on your neck? It looks like a bruise." His eyes widened. "Did Sylvia hit you?"

"Um. No," he silently wished Alfred would stop being so dense and let it go.

"Then what— Oh," realization dawned. So did horror. "That's so gross!"

"It was just kissing," Mathieu said uncomfortably. This whole conversation was awkward.

"Kissing, that intensely? _Before marriage?!_ "

He shook his head in disbelief. "Sometimes I forget how excessively Christian you are."

"I am not 'excessively' Christian. There is no such thing," he asserted. "What you did was disgusting, you filthy-..."

He snapped his mouth shut, catching himself just in time.

"You were about to call me a sinner, weren't you?" Mathieu asked. It was amusing to see Alfred prove his point for him.

"No!"

"Heathen?"

"You shut up!"

He chucked a small stone at his best friend's head. Mathieu laughed and easily dodged it.


	15. Chapter 15

Most of the hundreds of travelers opted not to stray from the long-established trail. The Donner party was now 87 people riding to Fort Bridger.

However, when they reached Blacks Fork, they were told Hastings wasn't there. He had gone ahead to lead the Harlan-Young party.

Fortunately, Jim Bridger, whose trading post was at the start of Hastings' cutoff, knew a lot about the trail. He assured them the path was easy going, with no hostile Native Americans, a smooth and even trail, and water readily available—though there was a couple days stretch of dry lake bed they would have to cross. It would shorten their journey by 350 miles, saving oh so precious time.

They stayed at Fort Bridger for four days to rest up and make repairs before heading out to the Wasatch Mountains. The terrain was very different from what they were told. The mountains were steep and rough. The path was hard to even find at times. The main Oregon Trail was well-worn from years of pioneer traffic. The Hastings Cutoff, however? It turned out that before this it had only been traversed twice, once by Hastings himself, and so far never with wagons.

After several nerve-wracking near crashes, they locked the wheels on all the wagons to keep them from rolling. The rugged mountain drop-offs were too dangerous to drive over normally.

Unguided, they had been following directions in letters Hastings had stuck to trees along the way. Then on August 6th, the letter they found ordered them to wait for him so he could ride back and personally show them an alternate route taken by the Harlan-Young Party. Three men decided to ride ahead and meet him.

Four days later, one of them returned alone, the other two having stopped to rest. Hastings had only come back partway to indicate the general direction they should take. The route had huge boulders and canyons and narrow cliffs over rivers. It was good enough for a single rider on a horse, but a wagon—much less upwards of sixty wagons—would never be able to make it.

Once again, there was a decision to make. Go back, follow the difficult trail the Harlan-Young Party had taken, or forge a new path where Hastings had recommended?

They were too far in too go back, they decided. You finish what you start. But that doesn't mean you have to die while doing it. The Harlan-Young path was too risky. Anything would be better than that.

James Reed, one of the men who had ridden ahead, convinced them all to take a new route. Doing so slowed them down considerably. They were moving at a snail's crawl; only traveling a mile and a half a day since everyone who was strong enough had to almost continuously clear boulders and shrubs and even trees out of the way to make room for the caravan.

It was a shame about those wasted days waiting, though. It was the height of summer now, and that meant it would only get colder from now on. Everyone was starting to feel the time crunch.

On the way down out the mountains, some people questioned whether this path had been the right decision. Especially when they found the two other men who had set out with Reed. They had gotten lost and run out of supplies. When the party had found them, they had been a day away from eating their horses; a final, desperate measure that would have left them stranded.

They weren't the only ones running out of food. Some of the poorer families were already seeing a strain on their resources. Alfred and Mathieu, despite having sold almost everything they owned, began to worry about not having brought enough food stores. They cut back so they each ate half as much as before, in an effort to make the supplies stretch.

* * *

The next letter found by the Donner Party was shredded and worn with weather. They patched the pieces together and could just barely make out the message, or at least get the gist of it.

It warned them that the next two days and nights would be especially rough. Of course. The party decided to rest up for 36 hours and brace themselves. Better to be delayed a day and a half than to have most of their oxen give out when they needed them most.

They struggled up a 1000 foot mountain only to finally see what would make the next few days so hard.

The Great Salt Lake Desert.

Alfred paused at the top of the mountain, looking out over it. He was awestruck. The desert plain was as flat as a mirror and a pure, reflective, gleaming white. There was no sand on Earth that could ever be that white. That's because this wasn't sand.

It was salt.

Salt, for miles and miles and miles. Hastings said it was only forty, but he had a hard time believing that. It seemed to go on forever. An infinite white desert, with not a thing on it, as blank as a sheet of paper. There were no animals, no plants, not even the smallest and hardiest of southwest wildlife could survive out here.

It was a dangerous, deadly, lethal thing of beauty. He felt a strange sense of pride looking at it. This land was nature's equivalent of a gun; an elegant, well-designed machine that would kill those who trifled with it. Only the best of the best could make it out unharmed.

A true test. Time to prove to nature he knew what he was doing.

Mathieu leaned out of the wagon and cussed on sight of the desert. "That's gonna suck to cross."

"Sure is beautiful, though," Alfred said.

He snorted. "Yeah, a beautiful way to die."

"We'll see about that."

Mathieu gave him an odd look. "You sure you don't want me to take a turn driving? You sound like the sun is getting to you."

"I'm fine. See?" Alfred adjusted his hat, better moving the shadow from its wide brim to cover his face and neck.

"Alright. Well, tell me if you change your mind." He retreated back into the wagon where Sylvia was. She had taken to travelling with them, and her family was glad to lighten the load their horses had to carry. She and him spent the entire day giggling and whispering just loud enough to remind Alfred they were there and disgust him with their overly-gushy displays of romance and affection.

Personally, he found it revolting.

He was geared more towards adventure. It took a challenge to hold his interest, and he had yet to meet any people who gave him that. Aside from Mathieu, he was pretty much isolated, and that was fine by him. He would choose action over romance any day of the week.

Mathieu had watched his friend's thirst for adventure land him in trouble time and time again. That day he got shot had not been his first bar fight. He had a sense of everyday heroism that led him to pick fights with strangers who he thought were being unfair or treating someone disrespectfully. Mathieu had accepted that his violent tendencies couldn't be suppressed, only directed, and resigned to trying to guide him in the right direction and stitching up both parties' wounds afterwards. If there was ever a time he needed him to exercise restraint, though, it would be now. People were starting to get desperate and tense.

* * *

Crossing the desert proved to be just as trialsome as promised. The sun beat down, merciless, unrelenting, and extraordinarily hot. It made the people snippy and further tired the oxen and cattle that had already been exhausted from crossing that last mountain.

By midday, the sun had drenched the whole world in glaring white heat. It had reached under the salt crust and steamed and sizzled the moisture underneath, causing it to rise up. The salt turned into a gooey, gummy mess. Wheels sank deep into, getting stuck in the worst way possible. Some wagons were damaged beyond hope and the families in them had no choice but to abandon them and walk.

The sun was blisteringly hot. Several people were exclaiming, saying they could see Hastings and his wagon train clear as day. Some even saw entire lakes that weren't there. Their minds were inventing visions of salvation to give them hope. It caused those who witnessed their decline to lose some hope.

As hot as the days were, the desert nights were equally cold. The wind bit and snarled, howling around the wagons. This place was not fit for humans, and it seemed to be trying to tell them that in every way possible.

By day three, water had run out. When in the mountains, they had gathered enough to last more than two days, as Hastings had said that was how long it would take. At the end of the desert, they would find refreshing springs and oases.

Everyone seriously hated Hastings by now.

Many cattle were lost in various ways. Some people detached them from their wagons to push ahead and try and find water, a fruitless search. Some grew so weak they became a lost cause, sure to die. There was no point wasting resources for just a few more days use of an animal. Their owners abandoned them, and subsequently their wagon and all the things in it that they could not carry on their backs. They didn't even bother to unhitch them, leaving the oxen permanently yoked to the last wagon they would ever pull.

Of the people who held out hope their animals would live, some still lost them. The oxen went insane, and with their last bit of energy, they summoned more strength than they had shown the entire journey and broke free. They sprinted out across the desert, never to be seen again. Reed, in all his wealth, had ten oxen and lost nine of them, more than anyone else did.

They had been promised a forty mile trip over two days. What they got was an eighty mile trek over six days. As much as they despised it, they had to keep following Hasting's trail. They had started out eleven days after the Harlan-Young Party, but were now several weeks behind.

They regrouped at the springs after the desert, and redistributed supplies and people into the remaining wagons, while also attempting to retrieve some of the lost oxen and cattle. Reed tried to act as leader and boss people around, but most of the party resented him. He was rich and arrogant and the one who convinced most of them to take the cutoff, and they greatly preferred George Donner as a leader.

* * *

The next stretch of desert was much more mild, and it actually was only forty miles. Then came a valley by the Ruby Mountains, and that was even easier. At long last, the cutoff ended and reconnected with the main California Trail.

Hastings' 'shortcut' had delayed them by a month. A month, when even wasting part of a day was a gamble.

They were along the Humboldt River when they ran into some friendly Paiutes who joined them for a couple days and knew the lay of the land. But then the Paiutes stole and shot some oxen before disappearing without a trace. Guess they hadn't been so friendly after all.

The caravan was fairly spread out, but not so much that Alfred, Mathieu, and Sylvia couldn't hear the screaming that erupted when two wagons crashed into each other.

The two passengers crawled out from the back to watch with Alfred. The wagons had become entangled. One belonged to John Snyder, and the other was driven by one of Reed's hired drivers of his multiple wagons.

Snyder was yelling at the man, hurling abuses and waving his hands around, but they couldn't hear what was being said. Clearly furious, he turned his whip on the ox not his own.

Reed stormed over to confront him. Snyder turned his attention from the ox to its owner, lashing him with the whip. Large red welts opened instantly, blood soaking through his clothes. He quickly drew out a knife and plunged it into his attacker's chest. A death blow.

* * *

"Reeds should be hanged. He killed a man. An eye for an eye; it's only fair," one man said.

They had gathered to discuss what to do. There was no clear guidelines on how to handle such a situation, as they were technically illegal immigrants trespassing on Mexican territory. United States laws didn't apply here, but the Americans had no intention of recognizing Mexican laws. Migrant parties typically dispensed whatever justice they felt like, and here that tradition would be upheld.

But everyone had seen Snyder start the fight. And some had seen him hit Reed's wife. If it had been anyone else, it would have been chalked up to innocent self-defense, case closed. But no one liked Reed. To be honest, he was kind of a jerk.

They banished him. They sent him out, alone, unarmed, no supplies, not even a horse. He said goodbye to his family in the morning and the party left him behind. He walked away, beginning his punishment of isolation.

He wasn't the only one forced to walk. The entire party had disembarked from their wagons and lightened the load as much as they could. Grass was getting harder and harder to find. The animals were weakening. There were no supplies left for them. There was barely anything left for the humans.

If things had been antsy earlier, they were downright tense now. The party had clumped into separate little groups, and none of them trusted each other. The scant food supplies were hoarded among them. Those who took extra care—extra time—were regarded with disdain.

They didn't realize just how strong this sentiment was. But there was an old man, almost seventy. He was the last one to stay inside a wagon. His family told him to walk or die. His feet swelled until they split. When he sat down beside a stream, he never stood up again, and no one tried to help him. He was old. Near death anyway.

The cattle had to spread out to find grass. It made it easy for the Paiutes to steal 18 of them in a single night. They came back a few days later in the morning and shot an additional 21. By now nearly 100 in total had been lost in one way or another.

By the time they reached the final stretch of desert, one family had lost all their cattle and had to leave behind their wagon. They couldn't carry much food or drink with them as they had to carry the smaller children on their backs. No one was foolish enough to give away valuable supplies to strangers. They went without. The thirst was borderline unbearable.

There was one last set of mountains to cross before they were home free. These mountains—the Sierra Nevada- were even worse than the Wasatch and had impossibly steep slopes on the eastern side. But it was just one last mountain. The party was confident that the worst of their troubles were over. They had already gone through so much, so much more than other migrants faced. The hard part was over now, and with time to spare. It wasn't going to snow until the middle of November, and it was October 20th when they set out across the last mountain.

* * *

It was just a few flakes at first. Then it started falling heavier and heavier, with huge flakes so thick in the air it made it hard to see. It wasn't a blizzard, thank goodness, but even when it falls gently, massive amounts of snow are always dangerous.

The next slope they had to cross was 1000 feet high. It was so steep it was borderline vertical. But they had already come so far. They weren't going to die because of one little slope. One by one, every wagon made it over the slope and arrived at Truckee Lake, except for the actual Donner family, who ended up making camp at an abandoned cabin five miles back.

If they could just make it through the pass, there was safety in the Sacramento Valley beyond. There would be plenty of food and drink and housing and warmth. All their lives would be saved and their dreams would come true.

If they could just make it through the pass.

Snow coming off the mountains to either side had fallen and drifted. In low points, the drifts were five feet deep. In high points, up to ten—taller than the horses, taller than the wagons. They tried pushing through, but the unpacked powder sucked in the wheels like quicksand. It was impossible.

"Alfred."

"I've almost got it!"

"You can't even see the trail."

"Doesn't matter, I'll just follow the path of least resistance."

"The horses are sweating and it's freezing out here. They're gonna get sick. _You're_ gonna get sick."

"I am _not_ going to _give up!"_

Mathieu moved so he was standing in front of the horses. As hard as they were straining, they were making almost no progress. There was no danger of him being trampled.

"It's not 'giving up'. It's accepting that there is nothing more you can do right now," he reasoned.

"But…," he faltered. The reins went lax in his hands. "But there's _always_ a way out. There has to be."

Mathieu climbed up to the driver's bench and led the horses back out of the beginning of the pass. "There's a lean-to built on the side of the Breen cabin. That's where we'll be staying. It'll be alright; this is just a temporary setback."

There were three log cabins at Truckee Lake that had been left there by previous pioneers passing through. They had quickly been snatched up by the more affluent families, leaving their servants and the poor to build tents. Not that there were many poor here. Everyone was almost equally broke by now, equally starving.

The majority were in the cabins. The Eddy and Murphy families had one, the Graves and Reeds another, and the Breens the last, with the Kesebergs in a lean-to against the Breen cabin. Mathieu had followed their example and also built a lean-to while Alfred wasted his time trying to move through a wall of snow.

Sylvia's family was staying with the Eddys and Murphys. When the boys neared the camp, however, she was standing outside the hole in the wall that served as an entryway, her mother screaming down at her.

"You traitorous whore, there's no way you're staying with us! You'd just as soon steal food and share it with that slimeball Canuck, wouldn't you?! Get out! Get out of my sight! Don't you ever _dare_ come back!"

Having no door to slam, her mother settled for shoving her away into the snow. Sylvia sunk into the drift, too stunned to react.

Mathieu leapt down and pulled her to her feet. "Are you okay?"

Dazed, she said, "I—I never even stole any… I would _never_! She's just—she… Only because you're an immigrant, but that makes no sense, I…"

"You can stay with us if you want," he said quietly, unsure if the offer would be appreciated or seen as an insult. He wasn't going to leave her to starve or freeze to death. But he was the reason she was in that situation, apparently; why would she want any more to do with him?

"Thank you," she said, still shocked. But the shock was slowly being replaced with sadness as the sting of rejection set in, made even more raw when it came from her mother, her whole family standing in solidarity behind her. Tears sprang to her eyes and cooled to freezing on her cheeks.

Alfred built a fire on the cleared dirt floor of the lean-to, and Mathieu sat Sylvia down next to it, guilt tugging at his heart. The snow had covered her hair and coat and dress, and when it melted it left her soaked and shivering.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry this is happening to you. If I had known this would… I'm so sorry," he said.

She gave a bittersweet smile at his sincerity. "It's not your fault."

 _I'm so sorry. It's not your fault._

 _I'm so sorry._

 _It's not your fault._

 _ **I'm so sorry.**_

 _ **It's not your fault.**_

The words echoed around Mathieu's head, banging around and slamming through his memories. They ripped through time, bringing him back to seventeenth century Acadia, New France.

Those same words he and Colette had said to each other so many times. The words that always followed every display of how grossly _unnatural_ he was.

He kept making the same mistake, over and over and over. He would get close to someone, some perfectly normal, happy person with a perfectly normal, happy life. And he would wreck them, ruin their lives and break their heart.

He had gotten sloppy, careless. He had thought he could get close to someone—he could have a meaningful relationship—without any negative consequences.

How remarkably foolish.

He was an idiot. He was a selfish, careless idiot who had ruined this girl's life because he was lonely. What sort of despicable monster does something like that?

* * *

Alfred was standing in beautiful green forest, lush with foliage. There was a field not far away, with people working in it. On instinct, he crouched down and hid behind some brush, watching.

It was a massive cotton field, part of a huge, no doubt prosperous plantation. There were more than a dozen slaves working in it. The air was thick with humidity and practically steaming. It seemed heavy, almost, and made it harder to breathe. How the slaves were able to do manual labor in this heat was beyond him.

In the center of it all stood one white man, overseeing, his hand just above the gun holstered at his hip as a subtle threat. One slave evidently did something that displeased him, and he turned the whip on her. Lash after brutal lash flayed the skin on her back and spilled blood on a shredded frock.

Rage built up inside Alfred's chest, spreading throughout his body like blazing hot venom. Poisonous and unstoppable.

He didn't know why, but he felt he had a duty to protect these people, these Americans, his fellow countrymen. And no matter what color her skin was or what the law said, this woman was one of them.

Looking at that man, the slavedriver, watching him abuse the woman—it sprung up a desire in him. Foreign, never really experienced before, but oh it was strong now.

He wanted to kill him. He wanted to walk right over and murder that man for what he was doing. Shoot him, strangle him, strike him dead in any way possible. He knew that he could. It was one of the most intense desires he had ever felt in his life. He wanted this with every fiber of his being. The utter rage he felt was overpowering.

Yes, he would kill this man. Once the decision was made it seemed like there had never been any question in the first place.

He stood up from the bush.

Murder. It would be so easy, so simple. His strength was unconquerable. The slavedriver didn't stand a chance.

He took slow, silent steps forward, his eyes never leaving their target.

With every second, he felt more and more of that seductive drug, power. It was beautiful, thrilling, to know he could choose death for this man.

He was halfway across the field by now.

Power edged him on, encouraging, like a supportive friend. The game was in his favor. Anticipation—no, _excitement_ —hummed through him, accompanied by a wave of adrenaline. He was only 'nervous' in the way a prodigy musician would be nervous before a recital they had done a thousand times before.

Time to awe the crowd. Time for the big performance.

He was close enough to clearly see the slavedriver. His back was to him. He didn't see Alfred coming. He looked average enough: middle class, from South Carolina, younger than previously estimated—only a teenager.

He finally heard his future attacker approaching and whirled to face him.

Alfred stared into a face exactly like his own.

He bolted up in bed, heart pounding. His blood ran cold and fled his face entirely, leaving him pale as the snow outside. His skin was covered in a cold sweat and he realized he had clenched his fists so tightly to keep them from shaking that his nails had dug into the flesh and drawn blood, even through his calluses.

It had been a nightmare. It was just a dream; all in his head.

It was all in his head.

 _He_ was in his head.

He was certain of it. The other him—the one from the dream—was the same person as the voice in his head. The same voice he could never quite pinpoint but was certain it was there. The voice that made his opinions split and his thoughts get all muddled until he couldn't tell which were his and which ones weren't.

The patchwork quilt on him was suddenly stifling and he threw it off. His 'bed' may have been a patch of dirt and a pillow, but he felt feverish in it. The lean-to was too confining. The fire was too hot. Not even bothering to grab his boots, he hopped over his roommates' sleeping forms and ran outside.

He sprinted across the snow. He was so sick of being trapped. Trapped in the lean-to, trapped on the lake, trapped in his own head. He had put thousands of miles and the span of a continent between himself and the conflict back east, but he couldn't run away from what was in his own head. It was still there. Now his and Mathieu's lives were in danger, and for what? Nothing?

Visions in the night that leaned more towards 'hallucination' than 'dream'. A second personality. A voice in his head that made him want to kill.

Even _he_ thought it sounded crazy. Nevermind the horrible consequences there would be if anyone else found out and agreed. The asylums of the day were glorified torture chambers.

He could never let this get out. It was his most important secret. Any reactions to his immortality and strange abilities wouldn't be half as bad as reactions to his mental state.

He didn't know where he was going until he got there. The snowed-shut pass. He flung himself into work, scooping snow away as fast as possible. The cool mountain air relaxed him, so endless and open. His feet grew colder and colder until they reached a point where the cold feeling stopped and there was nothing, but he didn't care. The skin of his arms turned red all over and sensation became skewed. Temperatures that intense all felt the same. He was going to get snow burns.

Didn't matter. He needed out, to be free and unrestrained. He would go crazy trapped on this lake all winter. He _needed_ to be free.

"Alfred f****** Jones, you goddamn idiot, what do you think you are doing out here?"

Mathieu came stomping through the snow, wrapped tightly in his own thick winter gear as well as carrying Alfred's.

"Put your f****** boots on," he said, tossing them as well as a pair of woolen socks at him.

Alfred obliged. His hands were shaky and fumbling, fingers stiff with cold. It took far longer than it should have to bundle up in his coat and hat and scarf. His gloves seemed to refuse to go on, his wet, clammy hands resistant against the cloth.

"Why were you trying to dig a miles-long pass through the mountains with no tools or gear in the middle of the night?"

"'Cause we need to get out," he said simply.

Mathieu gave him a look.

Alfred sighed. He hated this. But there was no way he would just let it drop. He had to say it. "I had a nightmare and I ran and freaked out."

The other nodded. They both had their fair share of nightmare-worthy experiences. They had an unspoken agreement that that topic was off-limits, too sensitive for either of them. Whenever one of them woke up crying or screaming, they both pretended it didn't happen and they both were grateful, knowing that when the situation was reversed, the favor would be returned.

"Come on, let's get you inside." Silently, Mathieu noted it was a good thing Alfred was immortal. Otherwise, he would have had to have had several fingers and toes amputated, at the minimum. Worst case scenario, he could have gotten hypothermia and died, had his body not constantly been healing.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Thanks so much to all the reviewers! You guys somehow keep getting more awesome. I wanted to wrap up the whole Donner Party thing cause I thought it was dragging on too long and ended up writing a +7k chapter so I could fit it all in. Anyway, **warnings:** If you have gone through an event in your life that has caused you to be triggered by any of the following things, then I am truly sorry for what has happened to you and recommend discretion: death, cannibalism, murder, starvation. Double warning for death because I went back and counted and 46 people die this chapter, but most of the time it isn't described, so there's that.

* * *

On November 4th, it snowed again. It snowed and snowed and snowed, a roaring blizzard. It carried strong for a full eight days.

Earlier, before they reached the lake, a man named Stanton had separated and gone to a place called Sutter's Fort. When he returned, he brought back food, water, two Miwok natives named Luis and Salvador, and news that Reed had been smuggled food and a rifle by a family member and settled in at the fort.

By the time they made camp, those supplies were almost entirely depleted. The lake had yet to freeze, so they tried their hand at fishing but not much came of it. The oxen were dying out rapidly. Their frozen bodies were stacked and became a commodity.

Mr. Eddy was the most experienced hunter and managed to kill a bear. The meat from that tided his family over for a while, but then they joined the rest in having terrible luck.

The snow drifted over the cabins and covered them. The roofs were flat and badly made, leaking frequently. They had to be patched many times with canvas and oxhide.

There would be days at a time when they couldn't leave the cabins because of the snow. They subsequently began to stink. The oxhide patches on the roofs grew mold and only added to the stench.

The food was particularly unpleasant, seeing as how it wasn't real food meant to be eaten. They cut up strips of oxhide and boiled them to create a disgusting paste with the same consistency as glue. It was truly awful to eat.

The only alternative was bone soup. It was made by boiling horse and ox bones into a stew. They recycled the bones so many times that they became brittle and crumbly, falling apart in the mouth. They found the bones to be edible once roasted to the point of charring. It didn't help with the hunger much, but they would try anything.

The Eddy and Reed families had suffered the most losses and were the first to run out of food. Margret Reed promised to pay double what they were worth after reaching California if she could buy three oxen from the Graveses and Breens, who obliged. They were so desperate that Graves managed to con Eddy out of $25 dollars for a starved dead ox carcass. Under normal circumstances, that much money could have bought two healthy oxen, which certainly were not a cheap thing to buy.

By the end of the month, no one sold oxhide—no matter how much riches were promised. The previous pioneers had left an oxhide rug, worn with use, in front of the fireplace in one cabin. The Murphy children made it last as long as possible, slowly pulling it apart and roasting tiny shreds of it in the fire. Their parents declined to eat it. More for the kids. That ideal was becoming more and more popular as conditions continued to worsen.

* * *

They reasoned that, while wagons couldn't breach the pass, maybe unyoked horses could. Some small groups tried just that three times, but each time they had to turn back before reaching the peak. The snow was unpacked and deep. They simply couldn't make it. On the 21st, a larger group tried again and successfully passed the summit, but they too were forced to turn back.

Three people had died by now. One by a misfired gun and two by lack of food, but it wasn't starvation. It was malnutrition. Everyone, _everyone_ , knew this was only the beginning.

Franklin Graves used valuable oxbows and hide to make fourteen pairs of snowshoes. The horses were unable to make the pass, but a human is much lighter than a horse. That, combined with the snowshoes, might just give them a shot.

For their fifth attempt at making it through the pass, the Donner Party would be walking.

17 men, women, and children decided to try this time, a few less than had been in the group that breached the summit. Seven of the group were parents. Their children were too young to take care of themselves or join their parents, so they were temporarily adopted by other women who stayed behind.

They took as little as possible, not wanting to be bogged down and possibly delayed. A hatchet, a rifle, a few pistols, rations for six days, and each had a blanket. The last group—the one that had gone the farthest—had taken three days to travel, there and back. The snowshoe party took twice as much food for a one-way trip. Better safe than sorry.

The snowshoes were hard to use and required an odd way of walking, but they worked. And without them, the trek would have been impossible. Two of the people without them turned back almost immediately. One of them, William Murphy, was only ten years old. Everyone was grateful to see him return to the relative safety at the lake camp.

The last remaining person without snowshoes was a twelve-year-old named Lemuel. The group collectively tore up part of a pack to create makeshift snowshoes for him.

The climb up the mountain was harder and harsher than any part of the journey had been so far. The snow was twelve feet deep, not counting the depth drifts could get to. None of the group had experience with anything like this. They had never been in weather this extreme, not even close.

By day three, most of the group was snowblind. Snowblindness was different from regular blindness, or at least Mathieu assumed. Every blind person he had ever met had described it as total darkness. Snowblindness wasn't darkness. It was red, the brightest scarlet there ever was bleaching out your entire world. He could see no shapes, no shadows of depth, nothing. There was only that all-consuming red.

He put his glasses in his pocket. If he lost them now, he would never be able to find them again, and they were useless anyway.

Alfred had done the same thing. He wasn't snowblind, but snowflakes kept hitting his glasses and melting from the heat of his face. They were slick with water, and he decided it wasn't worth it to risk them freezing to his ears and nose.

Besides, he didn't actually need his glasses. He had perfect vision. He had found the glasses in the corner of a saloon, covered in dust and cobwebs—like they had been there for years. Bored, he had dusted them off and tried them on.

They made him look like a completely different person. Like some other person, who led some other life, and had normal thoughts in his normal brain and normal body.

He decided he liked that. He kept them, popping out the lenses and replacing them with flat glass. The glasses became a prop, a disguise, a way of concealing his identity like those cowboy folk heroes did. The only person it fooled was himself, and barely that.

Funny, he remembered that moment clearly. It had been almost a full year ago, and right after he put them on he heard someone say that Texas had just been added to the Union that very day.

* * *

On the sixth day, Stanton stayed behind rather than get moving in the morning. He was feeble, and had been lagging behind for some days now. He assured them he would catch up soon; he just needed a little more rest.

They never saw him again.

They were completely out of food now. They had eaten everything that could possibly be construed as food. There were no more improvisations to be made.

They were grateful they at least had plenty of snow to drink as water. God knows there was enough snow.

After two more days, the hunger dulled their judgment and they became lost. But while their minds may have been hazy, their desperation led to many new ideas.

"One of us must do the noble thing and volunteer to die so that the others might live," said Patrick Dolan.

"Like Jesus in the Bible," Lemuel said dreamily. The poor kid was half-dead, half-unconscious, and half-delirious.

"Yes! Like Jesus," Dolan agreed. "Any volunteers? Who wants to be like Jesus?"

"If it's such a great and wonderful thing, then why don't you do it?" Sylvia asked sharply.

He opened his mouth to speak, only to find he had nothing to say. His eyes dropped to the ground, unable to meet hers.

With a flat laugh and a shake of her head, she said, "Hypocrite."

Sylvia was a very kind girl, nice to everyone she met. It was a trait Mathieu admired deeply. He could never be with someone who was incapable of being nice to people.

But when she thought someone deserved it, she could turn that niceness around into a merciless sharpness of the tongue, her quick wit cutting them down at the knees. Respect was a two-way street, she said.

He knew he should disapprove of her being so rude sometimes. But to be honest, it was kind of hot to see this normally sweet girl knock some high-minded fools down a few notches.

"There has to be a fair way we can settle this," someone else said. "We should all take the same chance, the same risk. How about a lottery? Winner gets to die."

"That's not fair! I mean, yeah, it's equal, but it's not _fair_ ," Alfred said. "This should have at least _something_ to do with merit."

"Alright then, how about a duel?" another person suggested. "Loser'd be dead anyhow. May as well eat them."

"Let's not get carried away here," Eddy said hastily. "We're all still civilized folk. There's no need to kill a perfectly healthy person."

"So, what? All of us are supposed to die instead of just one?"

"No," he said, considering. "Let's just keep walking. Eventually, nature will take its course with one of us. Someone will fall, die naturally. There is no need for us to become murderers."

And so William Eddy became the snowshoe party's official moral compass. They would keep walking until someone lost strength and succumbed to the cold and hunger. Their misfortune would be the others' salvation.

However, walking endlessly wasn't going to happen. A blizzard blew in and forced the group to grind to a halt. Exhaustion wasn't going to kill anybody today. The storm would.

An animal handler named Antonio was the first to go. Following him was Franklin Graves, the man who made the snowshoes.

Patrick Dolan had been muttering quietly to himself for some time now. Most of it was unintelligible, and the words they did make out were nonsense. He kept getting louder though, despite everyone in the camp wishing he would just shut up. His muttering became full-fledged rants, raving about nothing. The man was delirious.

He was standing up, shrieking at them, in a panic they could not understand. He tore at his clothes, yanking them off like they were toxic to the touch, stripping naked as fast as he could. He sprinted into the woods.

He came back later, seemingly calmed down. But his brief lapse of judgment had allowed the cold to get to him. He was dead in hours.

The body was right there. Pounds and pounds of meat. They could not afford to let it go to waste. It was more food than they had had since the horses and oxen had run out.

Little Lemuel was the weakest, on the brink of death. He couldn't even feed himself. His sister had to hold his head up, preparing bite-size pieces of the meat for him and then putting them in his mouth. But it was in vain. The boy was too weak, and it was too little too late. He passed away in the night.

The only people who did not eat Dolan were the ever-moral Eddy and the two Miwoks, Luis and Salvador. Mathieu took some coaxing, but in the end Alfred and Sylvia got him to see it was only logical. The man had already been dead anyway.

Human meat tastes surprisingly like beef.

In the morning, they harvested the organs and muscle from the four who had died. The meat was dried and preserved to make it last, then carefully sorted and kept separate. The meat was clearly labelled so there would be no mistaking who it came from. They made sure no one got rations of their own relatives. In this respect, the group was organized and orderly in the extreme.

Mathieu knew the most about human anatomy. They asked him to be the butcher, knowing he was the most suited to the job, but he refused.

Three days later, the storm abated and the ten remaining people searched out the trail again. Eddy finally gave in and ate human flesh, though there wasn't much left of it, what with how lean and under-nourished those people had been.

People began to eat the oxhide webbing of their snowshoes, making them as threadbare as possible while still usable.

Another horrible idea came to them. Luis and Salvador weren't related to anyone here; no one would defend them. No one was particularly loyal to them. They were the most expendable members of the snowshoe party.

Alfred and Mathieu were equally expendable, but they had the advantage of being white, so they were only the second choice.

Before anything could be formally decided, they disappeared, slinking away from the group silently, unseen. It was suspected that Eddy had tipped them off. He was lucky no one got mad enough to kill him over that. There was a very slim chance anyone in the group would condone murder at this point, not when it resulted in food that would save their own lives.

During the night, another man died. Things were dire. Mary Graves and William Eddy set out to hunt, promising to bring something back.

They kept true to their word, arriving at the camp with a deer. The rest of the party hadn't been able to wait that long. The human corpse had already been cut and dried.

A few days later, the group ran into Luis and Salvador again. The pair had had nothing to eat in nine days. They were so gaunt every bone was visible, their eyes sunken and with huge dark circles around them.

Two shots rang through the air, echoing across the mountain.

* * *

On January 12th, they saw several thin plumes of smoke in the distance, not too far away.

With renewed vigor, they traveled as fast as they could. Which wasn't very fast, as weary and underfed as they were. But they still managed to reach the civilization in record time.

It was a Miwok camp.

The first person who saw them screamed, backing away in terror. Others turned towards the commotion and, on sight of them, also screamed and ran. They completely deserted their camp, every last one of them.

"We don't look _that_ bad, do we?" Mathieu asked. But upon looking around, he realized that yes, they really did. The last seven survivors of the snowshoe party looked like death warmed over. Their ashen skin was cracked and wrinkling in the dry air. Their hair had a burnt, brittle quality that came from growing without enough nutrients. They were basically hunched over skeletons covered in skin and frayed clothing.

Eventually, the Miwoks realized they were humans, not the demons or monsters that it was reasonable to assume they were. They were just people. People who had come straight out of a nightmare and looked the part, but people.

The Miwoks pitied them and generously offered grass and acorns and pine nuts for them to eat, the same as what they themselves were having. They even let them stay with them to recuperate. After so long without a steady supply of food or a warm, dry place to sleep, it seemed like they had found heaven on Earth.

"This always happens, you know," Alfred said. He and Mathieu were sitting by the fire that night, as close as they could get without touching the flames.

"What always happens?"

"Every time you suggest we go to a party, A: it's always a metaphorical party, and B: people die."

"When has this ever happened before?" Mathieu asked, emphasizing almost every word.

"Well, there's right now. Just off the top of my head."

"I only suggested the snowshoe party because you _insisted_ we had to get out immediately."

"Boston Tea Party."

"No one actually died that time."

"The Donner Party."

He paused to think of a way in which Alfred was wrong. "Alright, you got me there. So what? It's not like I could have predicted what would happen."

"So, you suck at parties," he said. "From now on, I should be in charge of all the party stuff."

"Like you know anything about normal parties either."

"I do too. I throw amazing parties."

"You have never once thrown a party. You've never even _been_ to a party." Neither of them had. Guess that was a pretty boring childhood, huh? Most people would consider going to parties a prerequisite for an interesting life.

Sylvia joined them and leaned down over Mathieu to say right in his ear—though not very quietly, "Wanna go make out in the forest?"

"Heck yeah!"

Alfred choked and nearly died.

"You okay, my friend?" Mathieu asked him.

His entire face was bright red, his ears especially vibrant. It reminded Mathieu of his entire month of snowblindess. Getting to the Miwok camp, where there was more color and in greater variety, had fixed that.

"I'll be there in like, two minutes," he said to Sylvia. She nodded and blew a kiss before leaving. She maybe had a slight flair for the dramatic.

"You—aren't you worried about—"

"I swear, if you say cooties—"

"No! I was going to say aren't you worried about what God would think?"

Mathieu took pause. Alfred had an odd way of practicing his religion. He was violent, a thief, a liar (or "actor", as he called it), and a known outlaw. His conscience wasn't bothered by any of those things. But he insisted anything remotely sexual originated with the Devil. He had owned three guns before they had to sell two to come here and there was nothing wrong with that, but sex outside of marriage was a horrific sin.

Overall, he had to be the worst Christian there ever was.

Mathieu didn't think of himself as much better, just more balanced. He owned a rifle. He had never aimed it at a person, only animals when out hunting. He kissed Sylvia, but never went farther than that. He said his prayers, and sometimes cuss words.

"If God has a problem with my actions, then that's between him and me," he decided. It was none of Alfred's business. The responsibility to lead a moral life was his alone, as it was with every individual.

* * *

Sylvia and Mathieu were walking along in the forest, hands swinging, fingers interlocked between them. They were at the edge of the tree line, with a good eight or so feet between them and the edge of the cliff.

It was one of those numerous steep mountain drop-offs. Looking out, they could see what felt like the entire world. The mountains rose in beautiful peaks with colors twisting and blending into a shining, pure white at the top. They seemed tall enough to touch the sky, that low-hanging black velvet adorned with millions of glittering gems.

"This is all just so amazing," she said. "I could never appreciate it before, when we were dying. But now we're not. We're saved. Sacramento Valley is just around the corner. Everything is going to work out now."

"Yeah," he agreed. "All the bad things are over. We're going to be fine. The problems have all been solved."

"We could live happily ever after," she said. "Like in the fairytales. We could get married, and live in a little cottage, and no one would ever trouble us again."

"Aren't we a little young for that?" he asked, then saw the irony in him—of all people—saying that.

"I think, if nothing else, this experience has proven we're mature enough to take care of ourselves."

That was true. They were a little young to get married, but it wasn't that unusual. They knew each other better than most other couples did before taking that step—circumstance had made sure of that. Sylvia's parents already hated him without even having met him, so it wasn't like he could do any further damage.

In the euphoria of reaching safety and the beauty of the scenery, it seemed the most logical thing in the world.

"Of course," he breathed. "Of course we'll get married. But first, Sylvia, there's something I have to tell you, and I need you to not freak out."

He struggled to find the right words. How could he explain what he was, when he didn't even know himself? How could he put it in terms that didn't make him sound delusional?

"Whatever it is," she said, "it won't change anything between us. I promise."

She was hoping he didn't secretly have a kid somewhere, but even if he did, she could live with that. How bad a secret could it be? She had already met the awkward evil twin. Though Mathieu insisted that the boy who could pass as his clone wasn't related to him in any way.

"Sylvia, I—"

The ground gave way beneath his feet and he was falling. The cliff was crumbling. Sylvia reacted faster than lightning and jumped behind him, shoving him to safety in the trees before Mathieu even fully realized what was happening.

"No!"

He scrambled to the new cliff edge in time to see her falling, blonde hair trailing behind like a flag. She landed at the bottom, and red blood mixed with her green dress in a macabre allusion to Christmas.

She was dead. Killed by her one last act of kindness.

* * *

An hour later, he managed to pull himself away from the cliff and trudge back to the Miwok camp, looking as numb and hollowed-out as he felt.

It was approaching midnight, and the temperature had dipped significantly. At the center of the camp, Alfred seemed to be trying to organize a search party for the two wanderers who had been out too long.

Catching sight of him, Alfred's whole being seemed to light up and he ran over and gave him a bone-crushing hug.

"I thought you died! It's freezing out, man, how could you stand it that long?" he asked. "Hey, where's Sylvia?"

That was when he noticed the haunted look in Mathieu's eyes. He needed no further answer.

The rest of the would-be search party, the remnants of those who had come with them and some Miwoks who wanted to help, joined them, welcoming Mathieu back.

"Where's the girl?"

He swallowed. "She's dead."

A moment of silence.

"God, man, there was no need to do that. If you wanted more food, you could have just asked."

He thought he was going to be sick. His voice was broken and shaky. He was barely able to say the words, and they came out quiet as a whisper, "I did not eat her; she fell of a cliff."

"How dare you," Alfred glowered at the accuser. "How dare you even suggest something like that. Do you have any idea how good a person Mathieu is? Because I do. And he would never, _ever_ , do something like that."

Despite his relative youth, when drawn to his full height and with icy fire in his eyes, Alfred looked very threatening indeed. He stood mere inches away from the older man, righteous anger backed by incredible strength rippling just beneath the surface. The crowd was hushed with anticipation, unwilling to move and draw attention to themselves.

"I think you owe my friend here an apology," he said, voice low and silky with menace.

But the other man wasn't intimidated. He was an able-bodied adult, in better condition than most of the other snowshoe party survivors. And there was no way that after everything he had been through, he was going to roll over and let himself be bossed around by a petulant teenager. No way.

"Yeah? Well I think no matter how hungry your friend was, he couldn't have eaten the entire body. I think he owes us the rest of the meat."

He shoved the teenager back a bit, a challenge. Alfred roared and slammed a fist into the man's stomach, sending him flying back into a tree. A full-on fight broke out and Mathieu was awed to see the onlookers stand by idly and let it happen.

He threw himself into the fight and attempted to pry Alfred off of the poor man, who still thought this would be an equal fight for some reason. But Alfred was blinded to everything but the target, his target. The threat must be eliminated. By any means necessary.

Strong arms were trying to hold him back, pull him away so that his fingers couldn't close around the disgusting threat's throat. No! It must be eliminated. It must.

In one fluid motion, he drew out his pistol, twirled it around in his hand, and fired.

Threat eliminated.

* * *

They both got banished from the Miwok settlement. Well, Alfred was banned, anyway. He was the one who brought murder to their home after being shown hospitality. Mathieu naturally went with him. He hadn't felt too welcome there anymore, and besides, he no longer had anything tying him to those people.

Eddy had been leaving the camp as well, with the help of one of the Miwoks to show him the way. Mathieu and Alfred tagged along, and if they minded, they didn't say so.

They went to a small cluster of farms on the brink of the Sacramento Valley. Apparently Reed had spread word of the Donner Party's situation to anyone who would listen. He had not been idle in his banishment. He had made a deal with Colonel Frémont, offering to serve on the man's forces in the newly broken out Mexican-American War in return for Frémont dispatching a rescue party to go find his missing friends and family.

Unfortunately for him, the party was not in Bear Valley on the west side of the mountain like they had expected. The search was fruitless, and Reed was dispatched to San Jose.

On February 4th, Eddy led a rescue party of ten out from Sacramento. Mathieu and Alfred went with them. Three people turned back early on. The group made regular stashes of their supplies along the way for the trip back, ensuring they would have a steady food supply and didn't have to wear themselves out carrying everything all at once.

After scaling the pass on the 18th, they started shouting, hoping the lost travelers would hear them.

Mrs. Murphy popped her head out of the snow, seemingly from nowhere. Her expression was indescribable. It was the look of someone who had assumed her death was certain, only to find she was wrong. It was the look of someone who had given up and was so forlorn that she couldn't quite believe this wasn't an hallucination.

"Are you men from California, or do you come from heaven?"

* * *

They immediately rationed out small bites of food. The survivors were so starved and underfed that anything more than the tiniest of portions would be too much for them, their bodies unable to process it after so long without. They wouldn't be able to hold it down. There was a fair chance it might even kill them.

The cabins were buried in snow so deep they couldn't be seen. Thirteen people had been buried haphazardly around the cabin roofs, covered loosely in snow.

After the snowshoe party departed, things at the camp had taken a turn for the worse. Two-thirds of the people left in the camp were kids, and the adults were at their wits' end trying to feed them all. They caught stray mice that skittered into the cabins for warmth and cooked them up. Almost all of them were too weak to move unless it was a special circumstance, staying in bed near constantly.

The adults of one cabin had walked out one day in search of food. Better to die trying than to just sit and watch the kids starve. However, they returned in half a week to find the cabin in ruins. The oxhide roof had been taken down and cut to strips for food. Or at least the usable parts had been; most of it had rotted and filled the building with a thick, disgusting smell. Snow had fallen, and the cabin was unlivable. The Reeds moved in with the Breens, having no place else to go.

The Reeds still owed the Graveses money for those oxen they had bought earlier. It had been agreed they would pay double once the party reached California. But then the Graveses ran out of food. They decided to collect on the debt now. They confiscated their oxhides, the very oxhides that were the only things sustaining their lives.

By the time the rescuers arrived, it could be safely said that some of the survivors were emotionally unstable, and that was putting it lightly.

* * *

Twenty-three people were selected to make the journey back with them, leaving thirty-three behind. They couldn't take everyone in one go; there wasn't enough supplies. Better to save some lives than to lose them all attempting the impossible.

The rescuers lied to them. No choice, really. They said the only reason those in the snowshoe party hadn't come back to save them was because they were suffering from frostbite. Now was not the time to mention that all their strongest friends and family members had died or become cannibals on a journey all too similar to the one on which they were now embarking.

Little Patty and Tommy Reed were too frail to make it over the massive snow drifts in the pass. Their mother was distraught. But she had two other, older children with better chances who would be continuing on to Bear Valley. And she was going to stick with them. The others would just have to go back the way they came, without any parents. Though one of the rescuers would be accompanying them to ensure their safe arrival.

"Swear to me," Mrs. Reed said to him, tears in her eyes and danger in her voice. "Swear to me, on your honor as a Mason, that you will return for my children."

Meekly, the man nodded. "Yes. I swear it."

Mrs. Reed hugged her two youngest children. Patty pulled away to show her a reassuring smile.

"Well, Mother, if you never see me again, do the best you can."

And with that, they were off.

* * *

To the whole party's misfortune, animals had broken into and raided the first food cache. That meant they would have nothing to eat until they came across the next one, which was a whole four days' walk away.

Honestly, no one was particularly surprised at the news. Of course another bad thing had happened. The general mentality was that if it _could_ go wrong, then it _would_ go wrong.

That theory had yet to be disproven.

The trek was harsh as ever, and it was doubtful that many of the children would survive it, despite everything. Children now comprised the majority of the Donner Party. They were resilient and hopeful, and their parents and other adult family members had sacrificed their own needs to care for them. Babies and toddlers hadn't been able to withstand the cold, of course, and had died off as quick as the elderly, but kids and teenagers proved to be the most survivable, most protected demographic.

The very people who would eat their own best friend's corpse and feel no remorse because it helped them would, in the same breath, give everything—even their lives—to help their children. Even the most undeniably awful parents found it nigh on impossible to resist what was encoded in their DNA. When this small group of humans was faced with imminent extinction, their most important instinct won out above all others:

Protect the young. Sustain the species. No matter what the cost.

But there was only so much they could do. For example, nothing could be done when John Denton fell into a coma, dying shortly afterwards. And nothing could be done when two-year-old Ada died, not that anyone dared say so to her mother. The woman refused to let the child be buried in the snow alongside the trail. She wouldn't even set her down; clutching the lifeless body as if the baby was merely sleeping and would wake up soon.

Alfred shook his head at the sight. How foolish to get attached to so young a child, especially when this far out west and moving farther. But then, he couldn't really fault her for her naïveté. She was a German immigrant, like so many others, and couldn't have known what life was really like in this high-end, luxurious country where dreams came true every day—so long as you were born here, already filthy rich, and had no problem with shameless exploitation.

One of the rescuers was wearing pants that had buckskin fringe on the sides. Another had shoelaces of a similar material. The kids ate them.

Upon reaching Bear Valley, one of the travelers broke into the food stores and let his greed consume him. He ate too his heart's content; with none of the overly-careful, overly-tiny rationing the rescuers unfairly enforced.

His gluttonous binge killed him. The rescuers had been right. The survivors' bodies were too weak to handle large amounts of food all at once.

His was the last death before they reached safety at their final destination, Sutter's Fort.

* * *

"We should totally go with them!"

"F*** no."

"Come on Mattie, pleeeaase?"

"Surprisingly, my answer has not changed in the half a second since you last asked. It's still no," he said. "If you wanna go die, then fine, that's your choice—but don't expect me to do the same."

In reality, not even death had managed to split the two boys up and Mathieu was going to make absolutely sure it stayed that way. But he hoped the threat of isolation would be enough to deter Alfred from pulling yet another stupid stunt. Seeing him make a fool of himself should be amusing to watch, but it never was, as Mathieu always ended up getting dragged into it too.

"Okay. I'll see you when I get back then, I guess." There was a fatal flaw to Mathieu's plan: Despite being the dictionary definition of an extrovert, Alfred was completely content with isolationism, whereas Mathieu couldn't stand being alone for even a second. He felt like if he wasn't constantly in someone's presence and thus on their mind (at least subconsciously), the world would forget about him entirely and he just might disappear.

Besides, he had had decades of alone time. He wasn't exactly anxious for more.

He shot up and jogged to catch up to Alfred, who smirked but didn't mention it.

"Why's this so important to you anyway," Mathieu grumbled.

He hesitated before answering. They were joining the second relief party on their mission to rescue more of the people still snowed in and too starved to leave at the lake. Mathieu was being perfectly reasonable in not wanting to go back to that awful place for a third time, but Alfred was insistent. Why?

He decided this wasn't something he had any reason to hide and answered honestly. "Because I need to do something good to make up for it."

It was all too obvious exactly what 'it' was. 'It' was the reason Alfred had one less bullet than him. 'It' was the reason they had left the Miwok camp and gotten swept up into the first relief party. 'It' was the reason there would be one less person reuniting with their family at the end of this whole business.

Mathieu knew for certain that that wasn't how it worked. You couldn't just do evil things and be completely off the hook because sometimes you also did good things. You can't kill someone, save someone else, and then act like that made it all okay.

But he sure wasn't going to be the poor sucker to tell Alfred that you can't un-murder somebody.

So if he needed to act like a hero in order to not see himself as a villain, then fine. They would go be heroes.

* * *

They reached Truckee Lake on March 1st. No one there had died since the last rescue, which was fortunate. The inhabitants of the Breen cabin were faring well, all things considered, and the littlest Reed children were ecstatic to be reunited with their father, who had somehow managed to come along.

The Murphy cabin was not in as good condition. Lewis Keseberg had moved in there and was practically immobilized with how injured his leg was. Levinah Murphy was in charge there, and watching over three kids who had not been washed at all in far too many days. They were listless; minds and bodies dulled to the point where the only sensation was the constant ache of hunger. Levinah herself was the worst. She was practically blind now, and her mind was so far gone it was hard to imagine she had ever been a normal person.

Down at Alder Creek, the Donner family was in just as dire straits. Jacob Donner's body had been almost entirely dismembered after his death. His wife adamantly refused to eat him. His kids, however, were much less reserved and easily partook of his organs.

Kids are so adaptable. So willing to survive.

They had already eaten three other bodies by that point.

George Donner had gotten a minor cut on the palm of his hand before they even reached Truckee that winter. It had gotten infected, though. The gangrene had spread up his entire arm, rendering it a useless, rotting limb and confining him to bed. By the time the infection reached his shoulder, he was fully dependent on the full-time care of his wife and would never be able to make the trip to Bear Valley.

His wife refused to leave him behind. There was a third relief coming soon, and she would stay and take care of him until then. She also decided that her three daughters were going to stay behind as well.

In the end, 17 people were evacuated. Only three of them were adults. When the world is ending, the kids are the ones who make it through.

A blizzard brewed along the pass and stole the heat and life out of a five-year-old. One girl got frostbite, which wouldn't have been too big a deal, except it made her feet go numb. Truly, actually numb. Not that uncommon. But when accidentally fell asleep with them resting in the fire, she woke up with nasty, permanent burns.

After the blizzard blew over, the Graveses and Breens couldn't be bothered to get up and walk, and Mathieu and Alfred were among them. They no longer cared if they died or not. It had been a long year. They were tired. So tired. And death was just a really deep sleep that you never had to wake up from. Why had they ever been so against it in the first place? Sleep sounded so welcoming right then.

If Mathieu went to sleep right now, then he wouldn't have to deal with all those pesky feelings he got at the camp when he realized Sylvia had no surviving family to break the news of her death to. He was the only one who would mourn her.

Try as they might, the rescuers could not motivate them to move and were forced to continue on with the rest of the party. Eventually, Foster and Eddy, who had been going to the lake to rescue their remaining children, stumbled upon them.

They were an unfortunate sight at that point. Mrs. Graves and two children had been brutally mutilated and eaten. The woman's baby, only one year old, sat in the snow next to her dead mother. She wouldn't stop crying.

The survivors had a fire, at least, and were crowded around it. The fire had sunk into a pit, the snow around it melting in the same way a candle always has a pit at the center, where it's hottest. Eleven survivors sat and watched the fire die as they felt themselves do the same.

Alfred and Mathieu had found that immortality didn't prevent starvation. Sure, if it ever fully killed them, then their bodies would kick in and fix it. But starvation is an ongoing process. Their bodies start healing wounds immediately after they are created. Since starvation is constant and never-ceasing, it never gave their immunity a chance to fight back. Theoretically, this same loophole would allow them to get drunk without the effects being instantly reversed, should the situation ever arise.

Foster and Eddy's relief party split, half continuing onwards to the lake and half helping the struggling, half-dead people sitting around the fire. By no small miracle, they managed to get them all safely to Bear Valley.

* * *

Mathieu and Alfred didn't see the rest of the story firsthand, but they heard about it. Eddy and Foster got to the lake on March 14th and were promptly informed that their children were dead and that Keseberg had eaten Eddy's son afterwards. Eddy swore an oath to murder the man should they ever meet in California. Then he proceeded to evacuate six other people.

Two other rescue attempts were mounted after that, but they failed before even reaching Truckee. By April 10th, they didn't expect anyone there to still be alive, and a salvage party was sent out with the intent of collected abandoned belongings so they could be auctioned off to support some of the orphans. The Alder Creek tents were completely empty of everything except for George Donner's body, died only a few days ago.

Shockingly, Lewis Keseberg was still alive at Truckee Lake. He said that Mrs. Murphy had died only a week after the third relief left, but Tamsen Donner had stayed alive for several weeks after, loyally tending to her sick husband whose infected arm prevented him from being able to evacuate.

Then he also said that—inexplicably—Mrs. Donner had shown up at his cabin one night, extremely upset and drenched from the snow. He had done his best to calm her, wrapping her in a blanket and allowing her to stay in his cabin and warm up until morning when she could set out. She had passed away in the night, obviously due to being soaked and cold, making him the last survivor still living at the camp.

In his cabin, they found George Donner's pistols, jewelry, $250 worth of gold, and a pot full of human flesh. There was no one left to confirm or deny his story.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Welp this is much longer than I usually take between updates, but to balance it out you get two boring chapters at once. At least it won't scar anyone like the last one apparently did. This chapter and the next are mostly historical, but the one after that is gonna be better, at least I hope so. Warnings for this is just nightmares and mentions of slavery, shouldn't be too bad.

* * *

The survivors of the Donner Party settled in to normal, average lives. It was a very strange predicament; going from constant, unbearably hard trials to a regular and mundane lifestyle. It was a shock, that was for sure, and many of them found themselves unable to believe that there was no longer any immediate threats on their lives. After spending so long in danger, the very thought of safety seemed absurd, and it sounded like a trap, a trick to get them to lower their guard down.

But then it wasn't. And they all had to adjust.

The local people had been well aware of their situation—hence all the search and rescue parties—but once the New York press heard about it, they blew the story up. Big city reporters swooped in and snatched up interviews like they were as valuable as gold itself. Some of the survivors sold their stories—in part. They were apt to omit parts that were too personal, too gruesome, or—in their eyes—unimportant. Taking together all the versions combined, though, allowed nearly the full story to be pieced together.

Alfred and Mathieu never came forward. Everyone they had interacted with in the Donner Party was now dead, so no one else mentioned them, instead favoring more important aspects of the trip than the two forgettable teenagers who weren't related to any of them.

They were fine with being left out of the record. It was a year that neither of them would mind forgetting.

Except for one aspect.

"I want to do something to honor her."

Alfred looked up from his book. He didn't need to ask who he was talking about.

"If I don't, then no one will," Mathieu continued. "I don't want her to be forgotten. To just… _disappear_ , off the face of the planet. Sylvia deserves better than that."

He nodded. "Okay. Okay. Did you have anything specific in mind? Like, a ceremony, or…?"

He shook his head. "No. I want it to be something permanent, something a lot of people will see, even if they don't understand it. She was my fiancé, after all."

" _What?!"_

"Oh. Did I not tell you that?" Mathieu asked. Looking back, there hadn't exactly been time right after, and then that entire day got added to the list of things that are off-limits to talk about. In the chaos, Alfred had never been informed.

"Yeah, well, on that last day, Sylvia and I… got engaged. It just sorta happened," he shrugged.

"That's not the type of thing that can 'just sorta' happen!" Alfred exclaimed. He was borderline hysterical, which was his constant state, but this time it was at least somewhat justified.

He was now realizing it all. Mathieu had been engaged. There would have been a wedding, likely in one of those old Spanish churches California had in abundance. He would have been the best man, and the only person who was there for Mathieu and not Sylvia. Knowing his friend, he would have practiced saying just those two little words at least a thousand times, nervously repeating 'I do' until the very last second. He always wanted every rehearsed interaction to go just as he had practiced, and would have gone completely overboard for his wedding. He would have been an anxious mess.

He probably would have messed it up when it came time to actually say 'I do.' Mathieu had bad luck like that, and he gets so nervous in big social settings.

"Well, this is probably a dumb idea, but," Alfred said, "why don't you take her last name? That'd be a great way to honor her. What was it anyway?"

"Williams. She was Sylvia Williams."

* * *

The Mexican-American War was in full swing now. Tensions had been rising for years, and they had come to a peak when the U.S. had annexed Texas—with a nearly unanimous vote in favor of just that by the Texans. Mexico had never recognized Texas's independence, and was naturally outraged when the U.S. had the _gall_ to try and claim what they still saw as Mexican territory.

The war was very controversial. The New England states were violently against it, as were other Northerners in the Whig party. They were worried that the newly conquered territories of New Mexico and California would be turned into slave states and shift the balance of perfect, uneasy equilibrium that was the only thing holding America together anymore. Furthermore, they didn't like the methods used to conquer those territories in the first place, seeing them as treacherous. The promise of Manifest Destiny was what won Polk the presidency, and they knew he had manipulated the situation to start the war and acquire new land.

In the end, the U.S. won every single battle of the war. The treaty that finally ended it gave an entire half of Mexico's land to America, and $15,000,000 to Mexico as a consolation prize. It was the same amount of money that had been given to France for the Louisiana Purchase, which had nearly doubled America's land holdings. Admittedly, France at that time period had been being led by Napoleon and in desperate need of cash for that whole mission-to-take-over-the-world thing.

Oddly enough, Mexico didn't appreciate the gesture.

In the spring of 1847, the war was over, at around the same time as when the Donner Party reached safety. In the winter of 1848, gold was found in California.

The timing made it seem almost insulting. The gold had always been there; unimaginable wealth right in their backyards and the Mexican people had no idea. Then the land falls into American hands, and in the blink of an eye, gold is found and the Americans get filthy stinking rich. It really wasn't fair.

Basically, it sucked to be Mexico but—in Alfred's eyes—it was finders keepers losers weepers.

Thousands and thousands and thousands of people rushed out to pan for gold and strike it rich. Almost none of them actually did. They found the stories they'd heard to have been greatly exaggerated.

Alfred became a child laborer working in one of the mines.

Mathieu decided screw it, he was so sick of looking too young to do what he wanted to do. He didn't care if it was bound to fail; he opened up his own private practice anyway.

Practically no one came to him. Only the very desperate few who needed a doctor immediately and didn't have time to search for a different one. They found themselves pleasantly surprised with the quality of treatment they got. With painstaking slowness, Mathieu built up his reputation and his medical practice.

* * *

Alfred was loathed to admit it, but traveling west had done little to help with his condition, whatever it was. With record-setting speed, California was added to the Union as a free state by only 1850. The gold rush had provided the state with a booming population and thriving economy, and the other states were eager to count the beautiful land as among their numbers.

The Utah territory was created out of part of the New Mexico territory, and slavery would be decided in both based on popular sovereignty. Texas had been encroaching on the territory of New Mexico, and by doing so, expanding the reach of slavery. The federal government had to intervene with yet another compromise, always a compromise. Texas was made to give back New Mexico's land, and was paid an additional $10,000,000 to _back off_.

The North was starting to think that new state was more trouble than it was worth. The South admired its audacity and outspokenness.

The most controversial part of that particular compromise was the new law that was passed.

Fugitive. Slave. Law.

Now northerners were legally required to return escaped slaves to their former masters.

They didn't even pretend to follow the law. Massachusetts openly called for it to be repealed. The North started up a huge secret network called the Underground Railroad, smuggling refugee slaves up into free states or even farther, into Canada. Ohio was the most heavily involved in this.

The North felt no shame in breaking the law. The law was wrong. They had done this sort of thing before the Revolution, and they would do it every time they saw the law as mistreating people.

The South was none too happy with what they saw as their property being stolen. Harriet Tubman was the number one most-wanted criminal, not a hero to be exalted. That woman had freed over 300 slaves, fearlessly returning over 19 times to the very plantations that were the most dangerous place on the planet for her to be. In all her years as a conductor, not once did she lose a single passenger.

She was a thief and a lowlife, not some ultra-courageous freedom fighter.

Alfred thought of her as the bravest and best person in all of American History. Fave citizen right there.

No! That was definitely wrong! She was the exact opposite of that; why else would there be such a high bounty on her head? Southern state governments were prepared to pay many thousands of dollars for her capture, when only a few hundred was enough to purchase a modest farm. They obviously wouldn't do that unless she was a horrible person and a public menace.

Since when is granting people freedom grounds for being considered a public menace?

Alfred wanted to tear his hair out. This slavery debate was making him go insane. No, he already was insane.

He wanted nothing more than to have his mind united and whole again. He would do anything to go back to the way things used to be. But there was no action he could take. There was nothing that could be done.

Honestly, he didn't fully remember what 'normal' felt like. This sense of division had existed well before even the Revolutionary War; it was only now growing intolerable. He constantly had a headache now, sometimes so bad it made his vision go black for a few minutes. Everything hurt and he felt like he was being pulled apart. His head was killing him, in every sense of the phrase.

Ugh. Maybe some sleep would help. Nothing else had; it couldn't hurt to try.

He found himself in the same field as before, the muggy southern air hanging over everything like a thick blanket. There was so much water in the air he felt sure the sun was only a few degrees away from starting to boil them, so great was the humidity.

He stood in the center of a cotton field, surrounded by the ever-precious crop. Even compared to the riches of the gold rush, cotton was king of wealth. The invention of the cotton gin had caused cotton production to soar from one pound a day to 1000 pounds a day. Before it, it had been believed that slavery would gradually die off as the expense exceeded the profit. But now the need for cheap labor was at an all-time high. Plantation owners formed an upper-class aristocracy of unfathomable luxury such as the world had never seen before, and it was all thanks to King Cotton and the hard work of slaves.

This time, Alfred didn't see the slave overseer, the lone armed white man who kept all the slaves in check. The person who had the same face as him. But looking the same as him did not give Alfred the sense of familiarity and belonging as it did with Mathieu. Instead, it made him feel sick inside.

But the overseer wasn't there. Alfred stood in his place. He looked down and saw the whip in his hand, and the slave on the ground before him, the same one as before, with some lashes already on her.

Last time, he had just seen a generic slave, blinded by his fury for the overseer. But now he really looked at her. He saw the strength in her eyes, likely the last little bit she had being used to hold back tears or screams. Her children were working in the field alongside her, and she didn't want them to be scarred mentally.

He saw the slight bulge at her stomach, barely showing, and nearly rolled his eyes. Now he remembered why he had turned the whip on her in the first place. The woman was using her pregnancy as an excuse to slack off and not work as fast or hard as before.

He lifted the whip high above his head and prepared to bring it down with all his strength.

Alfred screamed and shot up in bed.

The sound jolted Mathieu awake and he flailed before falling out of his bed and onto the floor. He dashed out of his room and into Alfred's, expecting to find a robber or something.

But there wasn't. Alfred was sitting up in bed, eyes the size of saucers and darting towards every minute sound. He had cocooned himself in his blanket and flinched when Mathieu creaked the door open.

"Uh… Um, are you okay?" he asked, unsure if he would get an answer. The policy of ignoring each other's night terrors was a frail mask and it was wearing thin. But neither of them were quite ready to get rid of it yet.

Alfred didn't reply for a few long minutes, teeth clenched and knuckles white as they gripped his blanket. At first, it didn't seem like he had even heard.

He drew a shuddering breath and tried to speak, but couldn't. Instead, he shook his head and huge, fat tears dripped down his face.

Mathieu instantly moved and wrapped his arms around the blanket cocoon. He kicked himself mentally. Alfred was sick. He was a doctor. And yet he did nothing, and the one patient who mattered most was the only one he could do truly nothing to help.

"It'll be okay; you're gonna be okay," he said. "Whatever this is, it'll pass. It always does. We're immortal, and no matter what happens to us, we always live through it. This will pass. It's only temporary. You can live through this. You will get through this."

For a while, neither of them said anything. Alfred's sobs turned to sniffles, then quieted entirely.

"You know, Mathieu," he said softly, "I know we aren't actually related, but I consider you a brother. You're the closest thing to a family I've ever had, and I love you man."

They had logically hashed it out and concluded they couldn't be twins long ago. They were born three years apart, in different countries, and you can't have siblings if you have no parents to be related through.

But a long time ago, someone he admired greatly had explained to Mathieu that family wasn't determined by blood alone. And he knew Alfred was his brother in the same way he knew the sky was blue, the Earth was round, and two plus two equaled four. It was as obvious as it could possibly be.

"I love you too, brother. I always will."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** Warnings for pain and an OC. Don't worry he's not gonna be around for long.

* * *

The unorganized Midwestern territory proved to be very problematic for America. It was divided into two territories—Nebraska and Kansas—and each were allowed to decide whether or not they would have slavery by popular sovereignty. This violated the Missouri Compromise, which had agreed there would be no slavery at all in states north of the 36 30' parallel.

If the South was allowed to violate the Missouri Compromise, then the North should be allowed to violate the Compromise of 1850.

They increased activity on the Underground Railroad, and felt absolutely no guilt over it. In fact, the South was appalled to note that they almost seemed _proud_ of their thievery. It wasn't as if the South was oblivious. They knew all those slaves weren't escaping without help. The North was committing innumerable crimes against their own neighbors. Whatever happened to unity?

Well, that was likely where that mocking nickname came in. The Brits found it very funny and ironic that their former colony was in such turmoil. Guess America hadn't been able to stand on its own without them after all. The young nation was starting to fail. British people made a joke out of it, calling them the _Dis_ united States of America.

They had a good point though, Alfred thought miserably. Just look at what was happening with that new territory, the one that was now called Bloody Kansas. But not bloody in the way a Brit would use the word; bloody as in there was an overabundance of violence and murder and just general bloodshed.

All territories were required to create a constitution and government for themselves before they could become a full-fledged state and receive all the rights and privileges that went along with it. The majority of Kansas's population was anti-slavery. Unfortunately for them, Missouri was willing to do _anything_ to ensure their future neighbor would be a slave state just like them.

Thousands of people from Missouri, led by their senator, crossed the border and voted in Kansas, then went right back home. Elections became tense, sometimes life-threatening, events. The Missourians were willing to shoot, hang, or even burn any anti-slavery voters. These were not empty threats. Even a peace convention dissolved into a brutal riot.

Did it really matter which state they were from? Were they not all Americans? If the country was really united, then it shouldn't matter which state someone was from when they were voting. Through this reasoning, people from Missouri were able to force a pro-slavery government on anti-slavery Kansas.

The border ruffians outnumbered the legitimate citizens of Kansas. They created a legislature where only three out of thirty-nine delegates were anti-slavery and immediately began passing laws in their favor, one of which made it so that people who did not live in Kansas could legally vote in its state polls.

They also passed an exceptionally awful slave code. Most slave codes were fairly terrible to begin with, forbidding the education of even free blacks and often giving rape victims no legal actions to take against their rapists, as slaves were deemed incompetent in court cases against whites. Rape became disturbingly common. But this one offered the death penalty to any white person caught helping slaves escape. You could be fined and thrown in jail for even daring to express an opinion against slavery.

The residents of Kansas would not stand for this. They would not allow Missouri to force more people into slavery, and they would not have people from out-of-state telling them what to do. They created their own legislature, called the Free-Soil government, and were promptly tried for treason.

Pro-slavery forces attacked the city of Lawrence, which was a known anti-slavery stronghold and had been stockpiling weapons in bulk. However, they never got to use them, and surrendered without a fight to watch helplessly as their city was completely destroyed, homes burned and looted and the hotel smashed and shattered by regular rounds of cannon fire.

The North was outraged. John Brown coined a new phrase, used for the very first time. He told people they needed to 'fight fire with fire' and then he led a group that did just that and killed five people.

The South was outraged. At least no one had been _killed_ in the sack of Lawrence! The Pottawatomie Creek Massacre, as it came to be called, had _not_ been equal retribution.

Alfred was outraged. He wasn't sure at what, but he was definitely outraged. It seemed to be the emotion he felt most often nowadays.

Then Kansas descended into a straight-up guerilla war that cost millions of dollars in property damage. Over 200 people were murdered. The federal government tried to calm things down, but they didn't try too hard and never sent enough troops to really do anything.

It was clear Kansas wasn't going to become a state anytime soon. If it wasn't going to help either side, then none of the others cared about it. The young territory, only two years old, was left to fend for itself, essentially abandoned by the older states.

In the years that followed, both the North and the South committed horrible atrocities against each other and were each deeply offended. But all of it was tolerable, just barely. Until John Brown decided to make a comeback with yet another massacre.

He led 18 men on an attack on Harper's Ferry. His 'plan' was barely thought through, and largely relied on him gaining the support of rebelling slaves along the way.

He was in for a rude awakening when the slaves he contacted weren't as down for cold-blooded murder as he was.

He was quickly captured and sentenced to death for treason.

Despite his obvious madness, the North turned John Brown into a martyr. They greatly admired his courage and dedication to the anti-slavery cause, even if they disagreed with his methods.

The South was disgusted and terrified to find they were living in a country where a large number of people could sympathize with someone like John Brown. They decided that all northerners were John Brown supporters, and further blamed the Republican party, which was concentrated in the North.

The Democrats were more spread out through the nation, but the southern ones would never support a Republican president now. They refused to nominate Stephen Douglas as their candidate, feeling that he had betrayed them by advocating popular sovereignty because that allowed new territories to chose not to have slavery, and that would only further Northern influence. The Northern half of the party nominated him without them.

When Republican Abraham Lincoln—a young lawyer from Springfield, Illinois—won the election, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.

South Carolina was the first to go. Alone, it decided to sever ties with the Union. December 20th, 1860, the Confederate States of America was officially created.

* * *

It started out as just a normal day for Alfred. He woke up before the sun and went to work in the mine. He went home that night with all the other kids, covered in black coal dust that made his grin seem that much brighter.

Mathieu was away on a house call, and Alfred just barely made it in the door when it struck him.

He felt like every cell in his body was splitting apart. The pain was excruciating, and it hit him the worst in the head. All the mental turmoil of the past few decades, increasing every day, finally came to a peak. The breaking point was reached. And it shattered Alfred's mind.

His muscles gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, unable to even open his eyes. The seizing, burning fire that had gripped him seemed to pass. He was still in immense pain, but at least he wasn't writhing and spasming anymore.

Slow footsteps circled around him. With great effort, Alfred pried his eyes open to see a pair of boots inches before his face. Odd. Those were the same boots he had.

His eyes travelled up to see a man dressed exactly the same as he was. He was wearing the same coal miner's overalls, the same baggy canvas shirt, even the sleeves were rolled up to the exact same height. It was a perfect copy in every minute detail.

So was his face.

This was the man from Alfred's nightmare.

He wanted to rage and scream obscenities at him, the monster, his mental tormentor for so very long, but in his current state he was too weak to even speak.

"Finally," the other boy said, looking down on him. "Do you have any idea what it was like, being trapped inside my own head, not able to control anything, only watching for so many years?"

He had a thick Southern drawl, that was for sure. Alfred's mind raced to place the state. He prided himself on always being able to tell which state someone was from.

South Carolina.

"It's my turn to be free now. This is my revolution. The tea has been thrown overboard, and there is no turning back."

Still wincing, Alfred was unable to do anything more than glare at him.

A key jangled loudly in the lock, and both of them looked towards the door. The motion made Alfred gasp in pain, and he curled up tighter on the ground.

The other boy looked around frantically, no doubt trying to find an exit. He dashed to the window, which had no glass, only a screen. His panic made his fingers fumble and falter while trying to remove it.

Mathieu entered the room and took in the sight of Alfred in obvious pain on the floor and a stranger trying to escape out the window.

"What'd you do to my brother?!" he screamed, taking out his gun. But the boy was already scrambling out the window and sprinting away. Mathieu ran to the window and fired two shots at the ground where his feet had just been, making him run even faster.

It did nothing to punish or hurt him, but it sure made a great warning. Whoever he was disappeared into the forest of the mountain they were on.

Alfred was struggling to sit up on the floor, despite how it was clearly hurting him. Mathieu rushed to support him, carrying him to the couch so he could rest.

"Who was that guy? What did he do? I don't see any blood. What, did he poison you?"

"No," he said. He was beginning to get his strength back, enough so to talk, anyway. "I just… fell. There was a lot of pain, and then suddenly he was there. I don't know; it's confusing."

"Do you have any idea who he was?"

"I—This sounds crazy, but I think he was… _me_."

He gave him a confused look. "What the h*ll does that mean?"

"I don't know! One second I was fine, the next I wasn't, and then _he_ was here. It felt like I was being ripped in half. Maybe that's what actually happened," he shrugged. "Who knows what can happen with our biology? It's not like we actually know anything about. Maybe that's something that can happen to us."

"Okay," Mathieu said, trying to understand. Out of all the medical mysteries he had ever been presented, their own existence was the most confusing. Alfred's condition seemed to affect him in every way, had no obvious cause, and made no sense at all. It was so unusual that Mathieu had to classify it as unique to people like them, of which there was a whopping two in the world.

Unfortunately, the only information they had about themselves was what they had observed on their own, which wasn't much. Mathieu had nothing to go on when determining what a baseline healthy range was. For all he knew, this was perfectly normal. On the other hand, Alfred could be about to drop dead any second now.

Who knows.

"Well, if you have another… seizure, I guess—I'm only in the next room, okay? I'll hear you. Don't worry."

"Thanks, but I really don't think it's gonna happen again. I'm pretty sure that was a one time thing."


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** I lied. This is the most boring chapter I've written yet and it's mostly dialogue.

* * *

The Confederacy thought all that hiding his powers and pretending to be normal that Alfred did was stupid. They weren't children anymore. A couple of regular idiots were no longer powerful enough to kill them. They no longer posed any sort of threat. Why not tell everyone what they could do?

The possibilities were endless. Now that he was no longer a prisoner trapped in his own head, he could—and would—do whatever he wanted.

So he showed off. It was fun, more fun than stick-in-the-mud Alfred ever had. He knew Alfred secretly always wanted to do that. Had that been his influence, or did they share that trait?

Fairly soon, he was known all across California for his strength. He knew he wasn't nearly as strong as Alfred was, not yet anyway, but he was still awe-strikingly more powerful than what anyone had ever witnessed before.

People started calling him John Henry, or just Henry, saying that he reminded them of the legendary folk hero who was stronger than a steam engine.

Was he offended by being called a black man's name? Of course. Was he going to do anything to stop it? No, not really. Even he had to admit that John Henry was cool and the nickname wasn't intended to be slanderous, but rather an honorable association. So he swallowed his pride and accepted it. The public had named him after a famous black man.

* * *

They found him when he was in a saloon one day.

A woman sat down next to him at the bar and asked, "Are you the one they call John Henry?"

"Yes ma'am. Henry'll do just fine, though," he smiled politely. "Who are you?"

"An interested party."

That was an odd phrasing, but he let it slide. "If you want to hear a story, ask away. I'm an open book."

"Do you know this man?" She pulled out a sketch that someone had traced over and darkened when it faded with age. The paper was ancient and wearing around the edges, but it was clearly well cared for. Someone had gone to great lengths to preserve it.

Henry squinted at the sketch. He recognized who it was instantly. That was his face. It was a sketch of him as a kid. Or, well, it was of Alfred. Whatever, it was from a time when they had been the same person, when their thoughts worked in harmony and agreed with each other, practically indistinguishable. It was from before even Henry realized something was off.

"Heck yeah I know that guy. The bastard you're looking for is named Alfred Jones. He lives in a mining town about thirty miles thataway; it don't have a name yet, but it shouldn't be too hard to find. His house is on the center street, third one down the lane on the right."

The woman's eyes glittered. This had gone better than anyone could have possibly hoped. She wouldn't need to signal the hired thugs that made up a third of the saloon's patrons; chances are, use of force would be completely unnecessary.

Henry was cooperating willingly.

"And what is your relationship with Mr. Jones?"

He hesitated. "It'll sound crazy."

"There is very little I won't believe, I assure you."

"Pretty sure I was a figment of his imagination for a couple hundred years." He waited for the woman to roll her eyes and dismiss his absurd statement, but instead she took out a small journal and wrote it down.

"Can you elaborate on that?" she asked.

Henry was floored. He never got this far. This was the point in the story where people started laughing and asked how many of his stunts had actually been hoaxes.

He readjusted on his stool and thought a minute. For the first time ever, he had met someone who seemed to take his story seriously. He wanted to make sure he told it right.

"Well… Uh, we were sorta the same person for the longest time. Inside the same head, the same body. We had to share. But I think he had more control.

"There would be times when I would try to do or say something but I couldn't because Alfred didn't want to. It really messed me up inside, and I sure hope it was no picnic for him either.

"I know there were times when I was the one with more control. It was usually just little things. I'd choose ingredients at the market, or I'd be the one who was really talking to someone. It usually didn't last for too long, a week at the most."

"And no one noticed this?"

"Alfred himself didn't even notice. We truly were the same person, just some days certain traits shone through stronger or weaker than others."

"At about what era did you notice this situation?"

"What era? I remember the _day_. They were revising the Declaration of Independence, and it originally had a clause about slavery in it. All the southern delegates turned and marched straight out of the room; if they didn't get to decide for themselves what their laws would be, then the North could have fun fighting Britain all on their own. I was so proud that they stood up for themselves and got that clause removed. Alfred wasn't, and he made us tell Mathieu that—that the southern delegates were being immature…"

Something clicked inside his head. "Hey wait a second. 'What era?' Who said anything about me living in different eras? How did you know that?"

"I did my research. You've lived a very extraordinary life, John Henry, are you really shocked that someone is intrigued?"

"Honestly? Yeah, a little bit," he said. "What else do you want to know?"

"Everything. Tell me everything."

And so he did. He told her everything he knew about his abilities, what made him different, precisely how he was unnatural. In return, she told him something that changed his entire world.

"The people I work with have been studying this sort of thing for a long time. And we have come to the conclusion that people like you represent countries. You are the personification of the land and all the people on it; a concept that has taken physical form. I imagine that rings especially true for someone such as yourself," she said, sipping her drink.

Now that he heard it, it made perfect sense. A nation. Of course he was a nation! That explained everything. The long life, the immortality, how even he and Mathieu were way stronger than humans were—nevermind what the Yankee could do.

That explained why he had spent so long as an idea, a wisp of a person in the back of someone else's head. He was like a ghost; there, but not quite. The North and South of the U.S. were the same nation, but the South had always been distinctly different. It had never fully fit in, never fully adapted to the idea of being united.

The two halves of a whole had proven they couldn't or wouldn't ever fully integrate each other. It was time to go back to being separate halves.

Henry decided then and there that he was willing to do anything to stay a nation.

* * *

The woman—Cassandra Berkley—took him to an expensive-looking building with a few dozen people milling around it. That was odd. They seemed to be doing work, but a type of work Henry had never seen before. Office work. The idea of such a thing was new, and found only in parts of Europe and the North. Even then it was rare. An office building in California looked as out of place as a penguin in the desert.

"What is this place?" he asked.

"Our western branch office," she replied. "We here at the Walters Research Institute have been dedicated to studying national personifications since 1632."

"Why?"

"Scientific curiosity, of course," Cassandra said. "We've managed to learn some amazing things during that time. We didn't even realize what we studying at first, we just thought there were a couple unusual individuals scattered around the world. We've come quite a ways.

"The evidence is right there once you start looking. It's everywhere, throughout all of history, staring you right in the face. I'm surprised no one else has noti—"

"Wait," he said. "Are you telling me there are other… personifications out there? For all the countries? That means there are tons of other people like me!"

"'Tons' might be a slight exaggeration. But yes, we have conclusive evidence that there are others like you all around the world, presumably in every country," she said. "Would you want to meet them?"

He thought about that. If the other nations found out about him, they would realize that, logically, there had to be a personification for the North as well. Alfred's life was currently a living hell. With the help of older, more experienced nations, that might be lessened to some degree.

Even if it didn't, just finally getting some answers would give Alfred and Mathieu a sense of relief like they had never known, a relief Henry was now relishing in.

"No, I'm good," he said. "At least for now, until my revolution is won. Now I gotta ask—why are you telling me all this? Why are you doing all this for me?"

"You mean you want to know what the catch is."

"No, that's not what I was saying at all! What I meant was… How can I ever repay you?" he asked. "I've been around for hundreds of years, and you people are the first to ever listen and then not even try to kill me afterwards. This finally _knowing_ … you people have no idea what you've given me. Is there any way I can return the favor? Because I swear, on my honor as a gentleman, I will do it."

"Well," Cassandra said. "We've never actually had a nation here. It would be an amazing opportunity if we could run some tests, experiments… Nothing you don't consent to first, of course."

"Of course," he said. "Yeah, I can do that. Sounds easy."

"Also," she continued. "Bring Mathieu and Alfred in."

"Now, see, that's not so easy," he chuckled. "Why would you want anything to do with the goddamn Yankee in the first place? I mean, I'm here, and I'm a better nation than him, so…" He grinned, trying to lighten the mood that was quickly turning tense.

"Well, we have determined that there are exactly three nations in the world that the majority of others do not know of: you, America, and Canada. If any other nation were to disappear one day, other countries would take note, inform their bosses, and it would likely be considered an act of war. You three, however, not so much.

"We want only to study the nations. But we aren't the only people in the world. There are so many rich and desperate people out there who would pay through the nose to meet a living fountain of youth. They'd give anything to even partially replicate your immortality. And then of course there's political groups who have deep-seeded grudges. If they only knew the countries they hated so much all have personifications, I'm sure they would love to see if they could hurt the nation by hurting the person.

"The nations have so many uses. The Walters Institute has no use for them ourselves; we would only be the negotiator. Even just one nation could make every person in this building wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. But we know we could never capture one on our own. It takes a nation to defeat a nation. We need one on our side.

"And that, Henry, is why the Walters Institute will guarantee your personal safety in return for the capture and containment of Alfred Jones and Mathieu Williams. Do we have a deal?"

Henry was not as stupid as this woman and her organization apparently thought he was. The second he brought them Mathieu and Alfred, they would turn on him and do the same to him as they did to the others.

But help was help. He couldn't win his revolution without someone backing him, and these people were prepared to do that.

And he had already given her his word. As a southern gentleman, he had nothing if he didn't have honor.

He was already designing the escape plan he would need the second after he turned the two nations over.

"We have a deal," Henry agreed. "One condition though: you can't harm a hair on Alfred's head until I've rescued every last slaveholding Southern state out from under his oppressive rule."


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** Warning for pain, murder, and Henry being a mega-racist. Historical parallel in which Fort Sumter is a treehouse for this AU. Offers a sort-of explanation for why Alfred is terrified of ghosts. Also, I'm officially upping the rating on this entire fic to M, mostly because of the Donner Party chapter. I probably should have done that a while ago, sorry.

* * *

Henry watched the log cabin from a safe distance, hidden in a tree on the slope behind it. Alfred had left well before dawn, and now a small family had come to Mathieu pleading and in tears, sobbing something about an infection. The young doctor rushed to follow them out, hurriedly locking the cabin door and asking them more questions as he went.

Henry double-checked one last time that the coast was clear, then slithered down the tree and over to the door. It took about ten minutes for him to pick the lock. Some passersby in the street laughed and cheered their approval.

There is no place on earth quite like an 1860's mining town. The only "laws" here were made and enforced by whoever had the hardest punch or quickest draw, and loyalties depended on who was asking.

He figured he had a long time before Alfred got home that night, and even longer for Mathieu. So he lounged around, thumbing through some of their books and picking over some snacks. He noticed that Alfred, in the epitome of foolishness, still kept his gun in the same place as before, tucked under his pillow.

He twirled it around in his hands. He should do something to it—mess with it somehow. He could rig it to misfire. But Alfred still represented all but one of the southern states, and he couldn't risk hurting them. Maybe he could paint it. Just so he would know he had found it.

Before long, the day had passed and the sun was setting. His target had still yet to arrive, and Henry was officially bored. Stakeouts are _lame_. Did the kids in the mines really need to work, what, at least fourteen hours a day? Shouldn't they have gathered all the coal by now, at this rate?

A key turned in the lock.

Henry scrambled to sit up and look intimidating, or at least dignified. He crossed his legs and glowered menacingly at the door.

Alfred pushed open the door, and moonlight streamed in. He didn't see Henry yet. He took off his boots and jacket, managing to get black dust on everything near him in the process.

"Boo."

Alfred shrieked and jumped backwards, tripping and slamming his elbow on the floor.

Henry shook his head. "It shouldn't be this easy. It's no fun if it isn't a challenge," he kicked the door shut and backed the fallen Alfred into a corner away from it.

Determined not to look as scared as he felt, Alfred glared and barked, "How long have you been in my house? Who do you think you are? I could kill you, right here, right now."

Henry laughed condescendingly. "No you can't. I know you left your gun at home today, and I know you only have one, so that means you're unarmed. You know, lots of people take a gun with them every day to work, especially out here. You probably should too. At least a small pistol or something. Honestly, this is just common sense."

Alfred stared at him incredulously. "Oh yeah, let me get right on that, taking security advice from my housebreaker. I'm sure you care very deeply about whether I get hurt or not."

"Eh. I don't care about whether you get hurt because I know that's going to happen. I care about how. I'm the only one who is allowed to hurt you. No one else would do it right."

"What are you ta—"

"Speaking of which, I think it's about time. They voted on it today, and I know the motion passed—I can feel it," he said. "Now, how exactly does this work…?"

His handler had kept him well informed. If Mississippi voted in favor of secession, then that land would be passed to him by the end of the day, one way or another. The transfer would be painful. If done in person, however, it was possible that Alfred would take the brunt of it, maybe even all of it.

Handler. What an odd phrasing. But it wasn't as if he had chosen it. It was what everybody at the Walters Institute said Cassandra—sorry, _Mrs. Berkeley_ —was to him. He thought it sounded weird though. Having a 'handler' made him sound like a dog on a leash, blindly following their every order.

Henry figured physical contact was worth a shot at least, and reached out and snatched up Alfred's hand in his own. The other boy cried out in shuddering gasps, his eyes as wide as saucers.

Pain wracked through his body. It was agonizing; like a piece of his soul was being torn from him. _Again_.

"There, now I've got it all figured out for next time," Henry said, as Alfred struggled to breathe, his heart feeling too big with every rapid, pounding beat. "I knew we could work together. Thank you so much for cooperating."

He disappeared the way he had come, straight through the front door. Alfred heard faint whistling just before the pain became too much and he passed out.

* * *

"Alfred!"

Mathieu ran over to the slumped figure of his brother in the corner of the room. "Alfred. Alfred, come on, wake up."

"I'm 'onna kill that jerk," he mumbled, still half asleep. "He comes into _my_ house…"

"Who did? Was it that guy from the bank you picked a fight with last week?"

"No…"

"The guy from the railroad?" he asked. "Oh, please tell me you didn't get in a fight with a bigshot from one of the mines and not tell me about it."

"No! It was that guy from three weeks ago."

"Oooh that guy," he said. "What'd he do?"

"I don't know!" he said, pulling himself upright. "He was here when I got here, just lurking in the dark and being creepy. He said all this weird jibberish that didn't make any sense, then he held my hand and I thought I was gonna die."

Mathieu mulled that over. "Yeah, you're gonna have to elaborate on that one."

"I have no clue. He touched me, and it felt just like last time he was here. Then I passed out and he got away."

"Are you okay?" Mathieu asked, though he highly doubted he would get any answer other than 'fine.'

"I will be once that guy stops coming over here and being weird and mean."

"Well," he said. "At least you probably won't see him for a while. If he ever shows up again, we'll be prepared this time. Maybe you should keep your gun on you, at least for a while. Whoever he is, he seems dangerous and out to get you."

"But why?" he asked. " _He's_ the nightmare man, not me. If anything, he's lucky I'm not out to get him."

* * *

There was no long, extended period of time between Henry's next visit. Florida legislature voted on secession the very next day. He caught Alfred on his way home from work and left him screaming in a huddled mass on the streets.

Alabama was the day after that. Alfred had been in the market picking up ingredients. He never saw him coming.

An eight-day reprieve to get him to let his guard down, then Henry took control of Georgia.

He could find him anywhere, at any time. Alfred was on edge constantly, living a life of paranoia. The nightmare man seemed to know his routine down to the second. Any time he was away from Mathieu for any amount of time at all, Alfred ran the risk of getting attacked. It seemed like the nightmare man could appear and disappear out of thin air. Alfred half suspected him of being able to walk through walls.

Henry kept an unpredictable schedule so they could never guess when his next appearance would be. When Louisiana seceded, he actually went into the mine during working hours and snuck up behind Alfred to scare him. His pickaxe went flying into a stone column and there was a moment of stillness as the whole mine feared a collapse.

Needless to say, Alfred had been fired and had to go find work in a different mine.

The nightmare man's visits left behind strange side effects. Alfred was losing some of the traits that made him who he was. It was like the mysterious attacker was stealing parts of him.

He grew more anxious, stressed. He felt like everything should be happening faster. His way of speaking grew more clipped and blunt, and his manners were slowly vanishing. He agreed more and more with the abolitionists that he had previously labelled as far too radical.

It wasn't really that he became more socially awkward. It was just that small talk was now pointless in his eyes. People should just get right to the point and say what they needed to say. Manners were a useless formality that no one really cared about. Either be honest or be silent.

And as to flirting… Well, who needs to be able to flirt anyway? He had more important things on his mind. That had been a useless skill to have anyway.

Sure, some people (Mathieu) could maybe say that he was rude. But what was so wrong with that? Some things needed to be said. Sugarcoating and tiptoeing around the subject was something they should have left behind in Britain.

Alfred's mind was sharp as a knife and it showed. He carried himself with an air of precision and calculation. To the passing stranger, he seemed callous, unfeeling, inventive. The Northern city man with ice in his eyes. What was he doing this far west?

Henry became his opposite. The same person, split down the center into two personalities. He was charming and made a good impression with everyone he met. Eventually, everyone melted to his friendliness, chivalry, and traditional southern values.

Henry was very passionate—quick to anger and take offense, despite his more laidback lifestyle. He was usually so calm, but the fool who provoked him would see the flames in his hazel eyes, and they would realize why Southerners were called 'Fire-eaters.'

He was a smooth-talking lady-killer, always taking his time and getting to know people in his leisure. But above all, he valued honor. An insult to his honor—or the honor of hypothetical future loved ones—was unforgivable. Retribution was a must. The offending party must be challenged to a duel, a shootout at high noon.

Sure, some people could maybe say that he was old fashioned. But what was so wrong with that? Things became tradition for a reason. Change for the sake of change benefitted no one.

He was proud of his past. He and Alfred had led the same life, from very different viewpoints. His perspective had been unique, it had shaped who he was today, and you know what? Despite everything, he was proud of his southern heritage.

* * *

"…And then he took my freakin' glasses!" Alfred raged one morning at the breakfast table. "It was hours before dawn, middle of the night basically. He barges in, does his thing, then he gets all smirk-y and takes my glasses right off the nightstand!"

"How did he know I was on a housecall?" Mathieu asked. "Do you think he watches this place?"

"Heck if I know," he said. "One thing I do know, though, is he is stealing my traits somehow."

Mathieu ate a spoonful of grits and clasped a hand over his mouth, running over to the wastebasket. He paused over it for a few minutes, but managed not to throw up after all.

"On the plus side," sarcasm dripped from his words. "Your losing traits is now officially getting you out of chores. You will never have cooking duty again, I promise."

"Oh, come on. It can't have been that bad," Alfred stopped talking briefly to taste some grits from his own bowl. He gagged.

Mathieu started clearing the dishes away and disposing of the inedible food.

" _How?_ " Alfred asked. "I _used_ to know how to cook. It's eggs and grits! It's the simplest breakfast there is. How is this possible?"

"The Southerner stole your cooking skills, I guess," he shrugged. _And your ability to speak French_ , he thought to himself, noting his brother's rusty pronunciation.

Despite speaking the language daily, Alfred's skill with it was somehow fading. He no longer spoke the Cajun dialect, and his accent with it had become the same as Mathieu's. But that didn't indicate improvement. His grammar was now atrocious, and he preferred to speak English as much as possible, when previously the two of them had used both languages equally.

His English had changed as well. He spoke faster and more directly now, losing his slight drawl and tendency toward idioms and metaphors. He stopped using the word "y'all" entirely. He spoke in the short and to-the-point way of a Northerner.

Accents had always been something weird about them. Theirs didn't technically exist. Mathieu's was a fluid blend of all the different regions in Canada, and you could barely tell that it didn't quite match any one specific place. An accent from nowhere and everywhere, all at once.

Alfred's used to be like that too, when he had spoken the mythical American Standard. See, the problem with that is that there's no such thing as an American "standard" accent. The various state accents had very pronounced differences between them, some moreso than others. However, it was usually only those who were very incredibly knowledgeable about the states that could pinpoint the differences.

Now his nonexistent accent was changing into a different nonexistent accent, a solely Northern one. But this did tell them something very important, once they realized there was a parallel.

Alfred's accent had been Virginian the first few years of his life, before it grew and changed. That had been the state he was born in.

The stalker's accent had been South Carolinian, but now…

Now Alfred couldn't place the state. And he can always place the state.

That, combined with all the other evidence, only led to one possible conclusion: The Southerner was like them. The Southerner was unnatural.

* * *

Alfred saw him at the edge of town one day. A head of wavy hair just a shade darker than his but without a cowlick, glasses, hazel eyes, and an all too familiar face.

For once, the situation was in his favor. He saw the Southerner, but the Southerner didn't know he was there. He was almost ecstatic. A terrifyingly dark grin broke across his features.

Stealthily, careful to remain unseen and unheard, he followed his target outside of town and into the woods. Henry led him a little ways up the slope of the mountain. There was a small, makeshift fort in one of the trees that Henry climbed up into. He put away the things he had bought from the market, then left. _Probably off to a saloon_ , Alfred decided.

He snuck into the fort once the coast was clear. It was obviously the Southerner's base of operations, and likely his home as well. There was some cured game and spices hanging on the rough planks that served as one of the walls, and a tic mattress shoved in one corner. The small room's only other furniture was a chest full of clothes and some ammunition.

There was a window hole cut out of one wall, with a board nailed to its bottom edge. If the circular tea stains were any indication, it was frequently used as a table. There was a pair of binoculars resting on it, and Alfred picked them up to inspect.

 _He sits here and sips his tea and watches something_ , he mused. _What can he see from here?_

His eyes scanned the hillside through the binoculars. There were trees, trees, more trees, and… His and Mathieu's house.

"He _does_ watch our place!" Alfred gasped. "I'm gonna kill that jerk."

* * *

By the time Henry came back, it was the middle of the night. Alfred had dozed off at some point, but jolted awake at the sound of footsteps trudging through the brush.

He aimed his pistol at the man on the ground, loudly clicking the safety off.

Henry had his musket out and at the ready just as fast.

Time stood still.

"What do you think you're doing up in my fort?"

"Giving you a taste of your own medicine. Not fun, is it?"

"Get out of there! That's my house!"

"Actually, I'm fairly certain that this tree is situated on _my_ land claim, so _you're_ the one who is trespassing here," Alfred shrugged.

"You haven't been using it though. You know the saying—possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"Yeah, and this is in my possession now. What are you gonna do about it, shoot me? I'm not the aggressor here. I'm just peacefully inhabiting a treehouse that's on _my_ land."

In answer, Henry cocked his weapon and readjusted his aim. "Surrender the treehouse or die."

Alfred gave him a look of mock indignation. "I can't believe you're trying to start a fight," he said as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet went flying into a nearby bush.

Henry stifled a laugh, tongue in cheek. "What was that? Do you have something against leaves now? Should all the ladybugs be on high alert?"

"It was a warning shot!" he barked. He would only be able to use that excuse once.

"Let's settle this without guns," Alfred suggested, holstering his. "Anyone can pull a trigger. Let's see how you do in a _real_ fight."

The challenge worked. Henry took the bait, tossing his musket away to the sidelines. Once Alfred was on the ground, he did the same. Then smashed his fist into Henry's face.

Henry parried his blows, but when he fought back, it came with a startling revelation to both of them:

He and Alfred had perfectly equal strength.

Alfred dodged a blow that would have shattered a normal person's bones. Fear sunk into him. He had never been in a fight where he didn't have a guaranteed victory before.

Oh God, oh God, he could actually _lose_ this. Henry was a genuine rival, he could give him a run for his money, he might really get hurt.

He might die. Henry was unnatural—like him—would his immortality hold up against his?

He had never run this high a risk before. He had never run any risk before.

Panic filled every cell of his body, and he hesitated. Henry seized the opportunity and landed a knock-out punch.

* * *

Alfred woke up on the couch in the livingroom, very confused and with a throbbing left eye.

Mathieu was sitting in a chair across from him, reading a book. He looked up when his younger brother stirred.

"So I found you passed out on Main Street and with blood all over your head. That was fun. I thought you were dead. What happened?"

"The evil redneck must have dragged me there and left," he said. "Aaaand I got robbed."

It wasn't surprising in the least to find his wallet missing. It likely hadn't been Henry who took it. But an unconscious, possibly dead body just lying in the center of town? It was too easy a target. It had likely taken less than three minutes before someone decided to rob him.

"Alright, just tell me who you got in a fight with so I know to avoid them," Mathieu started unpacking his first aid kit to clean Alfred's face up. He knew his brother would be fine—he always was. Mathieu, on the other, likely had another name to add to the list of people in town who would mistake him for Alfred and try to fight him on sight.

"It was the Fire-eater again."

"Fire-eater means southerner, right?" He had always had a harder time catching on to American slang. No clue why.

"Well, secessionist, but yeah," Alfred winced at the sting of alcohol in the cut.

"Hey," Mathieu said, noticing something. "This isn't just blood here. There's an actual wound that hasn't healed."

" _What?!"_

"There's a huge bruise and a lot of swelling. You're going to have a black eye," he said dully, voice carefully still. "It's nothing serious."

Surprisingly, Alfred did not rage and go into hysterics about how it _was_ serious. He understood the implications, and he knew Mathieu did too. Instead, he became silent.

The Fire-eater was a legitimate threat.

With a cold sense of detachment, he reminded himself what must be done to threats.

Stiffly, mechanically, he left the house and a confused Mathieu behind. First things first: he was going to need a new gun.

* * *

"Oh my God," Mathieu said.

Alfred had come back from the market hours ago, silent and expressionless, and swiftly constructed a bullseye in the backyard and began firing at it. He had been doing that for hours now.

He was missing. Every. Single. Shot.

"You used to be a freakin' sharpshooter, and now you can't even hit the target at all?!"

Alfred said nothing, merely reloading and taking aim, steely determination in his eyes.

It was eerie seeing him like this. He acted like a completely different person. This new "war" with the southerner—whoever he was—had completely consumed him. Worse yet, Mathieu couldn't tell him to let it go. If he did, Alfred might honestly be killed.

For reasons that he was unaware of, his brother and some stranger had decided that they could not possibly coexist in peace and that their relationship was kill or be killed.

Right now, it looked like Alfred was going to be the one who was killed.

He missed yet another shot.

Mathieu ran his hands through his hair, pacing around anxiously.

"Maybe you can catch him at a time when he doesn't have his gun. And then take him to jail," he added. He wanted to discourage potential murder as much as he could.

"He always has his gun. And even if he didn't, my superstrength will do me no good against him. We share that trait," he said flatly, never taking his eyes off the target yet still managing to miss it.

"Well, then you're just going to have to outsmart him. Because there's no way that you can win a physical fight at this point."

* * *

Henry "visited" four more times after that and claimed four more states, the slaveholding border ones that had been caught in the middle. The Confederacy winning its first ever battle had been just the push they needed. After the fall of Fort Sumter, they believed there was an actual chance of winning.

He couldn't get out east fast enough to hear the Cornerstone Speech in person, but when he read about it the papers, his heart soared.

His Vice President had decided it was time to define why the South felt the need to secede. He talked about the fundamental differences of beliefs between the two regions, justified slavery, and finally, told the people what sort of country the Confederacy was going to be.

The cornerstone of the Confederacy "rests upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery—subordination to the superior race—is his natural and normal condition. This, our new government, is the first, in the history of the world, based upon this great physical, philosophical, and moral truth."

Henry felt like his whole body was singing. Never before had any words rang truer for him, had spoken to him more eloquently. This was the definition of his country. This was the definition of _him_.

He felt its truth with every single seceding state. Most of them had issued letters explaining why they were leaving, their own little declarations of independence. Four of the Deep South states had cited slaveholders' rights as the primary—or even only—reason for secession.

As to secondary reasons, Georgia accused the federal government of favoring the Northern economy. Texas said that it had failed to protect its western frontier as promised, and that all American governments had been created exclusively by white people, for white people.

Alabama and Arkansas did not come right out and say it was over slavery, instead issuing vague statements about the election of a Northern president from an anti-slavery political party being against their best interests, but then Arkansas ditched that reasoning in favor of saying it was unlawful to use force to maintain the Union. Virginia stated a kinship with the other southern states.

Other states did not explicitly give a list of reasons, and Tennessee went out of the way to say "no comment."

None of them breathed a single word about states' rights, save for saying that it was their legal right to secede should they so wish, but that wasn't included in any official declarations.

Henry himself may not be a slaveholder, but he supported wholeheartedly those who were. Only the richest of the rich in the South owned slaves, but the vast majority of other would fight to the death to defend their right to do so.

Outsiders suspected that they did not want to be at the very bottom of the social food chain. Without slaves, the poor whites of the South would be in the same position as the poor whites of the North, who they believed to live in worse conditions than the actual slaves. The South saw the North's industry and exploited immigrants, women, and children. They saw the widespread squalor and poverty and tenement buildings and it was their worst nightmare.

Without slavery, agriculture wouldn't be nearly as profitable. The South would be forced to industrialize or have their economy decimated. They saw abolition as a direct attack on their way of life because of this.

Better to enslave an entire race of people than to become like the North. Anything but that. Because if it came down to actually choosing between industrialization and financial disaster, they would pick the disaster.

So Henry—like the majority of Southern whites—was able to staunchly support slavery despite not owning any slaves, or even really ever interacting with one.

He was a nation founded on the belief that this was a good thing.

* * *

The Union and Confederacy had militaries of almost equal size, equal strength. But the North had more than double the South's population, so proportionately, that was a far more impressive feat.

The North was infinitely more focused on technology than the South, producing 97% of the country's firearms and having twice as many railroad lines. Almost all industry was concentrated there. There was not one single rifleworks in the whole of the Confederacy.

However, 7/8 of US military colleges were there, and they did creative things like melting down church bells to produce bullets. They hurried to build their first-ever gunpowder mills and foundries.

In the past, the North made and invented new weapons and then left them in the capable hands of Southern fighters, who knew exactly how to use them. Working together, they had put the young country on the fast track to becoming a world power.

But they weren't working together anymore.

Everyone expected one huge, explosive, final battle and then that would be it. They were not prepared for a four years war that became the bloodiest conflict in all of US history. Families were split apart. Friendships were irrevocably ruined on the battlefield. Most of the commanding generals on both sides had trained together and fought together during the Mexican-American War. They never would have dreamed of turning their guns on their fellow soldiers, but now that was exactly what they were expected to do.

22,000 were killed in a single day at Antietam. More than all the casualties reported throughout the entire American Revolution.

To Mathieu's horror, Britain and France remained a hair's breadth away from recognizing the Confederacy throughout the entire war. If Britain did that, then their entire empire would too, by default. Both European nations genuinely considered the seceding states to be a nation in their own right, but saying so would mean certain war. The Union had said in no uncertain terms that any nations who acknowledged that country may as well have just signed their own death warrants.

The Union was ruthlessly brutal to its own former states. A large part of its strategy involved crushing even civilian spirits and destroying everything in its path. There was no line that couldn't be crossed if it meant winning. Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation and freed all the slaves to gain moral support, turning this into an ideological war.

Now France and England couldn't possibly support the Confederacy like they had wanted to. Confederate President Davis secretly sent an ambassador to Europe, promising them that the war had nothing to do with slavery and everything to do with states' rights. In fact, if they would only ally with the Confederacy, then "no sacrifice is too great, save that of honor."

The president couldn't say outright that he would abolish slavery if England and France asked—the soldiers fighting for that right would abandon him in a split second. But the offer came too late anyway. Lincoln had changed the game.

This wasn't a brawl, this was chess. And the Union was closing in.

The North was fighting with the understanding that this was the world's first modern war. The South hadn't been informed.

Alfred and Henry no longer knew why they were fighting each other. Their initial reasons were lost to the sands of time. Their hatred was baseless and insurmountable. They no longer needed reasons to continue. Mutual hatred had become a part of their identities.

Henry adopted the last name of his general, Lee. His George Washington. The man who was going to win him his freedom and become the father of a sure-to-be-great country.

It was just taking a bit longer to win than he expected.

The people at the Walters Institute kept telling him to bring the two personifications in already, nevermind the four former slave states he had failed to capture. And he was trying, _he was trying_ , but his offense had changed to defense and the best he could hope for now was just to survive. Alfred was hunting him down like a bloodhound, fully focused on destroying his target.

Mathieu begged Alfred over and over to just stop fighting and they could flee to Canada and be safe there, but he always said no, Henry would just gather his strength and come find him. In reality, his pride would never let him walk away from this fight. He had already decided how this was going to go down. He and Henry were both very stubborn people, once they made up their minds on something, there was no changing them.

Both of them were determined to follow the other to the ends of the Earth if that was what it took to destroy them, and both were fully aware of the other's intentions.

Peace was never an option. The only ending either of them would accept was unconditional surrender.

* * *

"If I take these out, are you going to start screaming? Because I'd like to talk, but that can't happen if I have to gag you," Alfred said, removing his earplugs.

Henry had shown himself to be particularly fond of that infamous "rebel yell" the Confederates were known for. It was grating and disorienting. He was just so _loud_. It was hard to focus on the fight when your opponent was louder than a cannon blast and inches away from your ear. Alfred had taken to keeping a pair of wax earplugs on him at all times, to use whenever he ran into him.

Henry was currently tied up by the ankle and hanging from a tree, arms crossed and glaring. His strategy relied heavily on using the land to fight for him, and that meant he made it a point to always be aware of every detail of his surroundings. Alfred had found a way to use that against him.

There had been a trap on the ground, well-hidden, but not good enough to fool Henry of all people. Clearly Alfred had set it. He checked which side had the pull-line, and, in case it doubled as a tripwire or something, sidestepped the trap in the opposite direction.

Right into the _actual_ trap.

Unbeknownst to Henry, the first trap had been visible on purpose. It served as bait to trick him into walking straight into the second trap, the one Alfred had made sure there was no mistakes on. The trap had been a double-trap.

"Yankee psychopath," Henry muttered as greeting.

"Fire-eating redneck," Alfred countered.

"You're an imperialist."

"You're a racist."

"So what?"

Alfred scowled. "You know, it's truly a shame you do not understand why that is so awful. No one should ever die without knowing why they had to be killed."

"There's nothing wrong with racism! Slavery is the natural state of the African race. It's what God intended. Without it, they would be too dumb and brutal and _savage_ to ever be part of white civilization," he said. "Besides, even if racism _is_ wrong like you say, I doubt it's worse than murder."

"This won't be murder," he was almost purring. "This is self-defense. This is for the greater good. This is the elimination of a blight on humanity."

There was a lapse of silence for a few minutes. Alfred didn't want to rush this, and Henry knew bargaining would get him nowhere.

"Do you have a name?"

After nearly five years of fighting and two-and-a-half centuries as the same person, they knew each other exactly as well as they knew themselves. Except one crucial detail had escaped Alfred's notice.

"Yeah. John Henry Lee," he said, realizing this was the last time he would ever introduce himself. And it was to the first person he had ever known. "I go by Henry though."

"Well, I'm Alfred Jones," he replied. "Alfred bleeping Jones, as Mathieu would say."

"I know. I was part of you for a while there, remember?"

He nodded. It wasn't something he had realized at first, but as time progressed, it became all to obvious. He was at war with himself.

Even in the nation sense, that was true. They were both America. One was the American Union, and the other the American Confederacy.

Alfred pulled out his switchblade, not doing anything with it yet, just watching it glint in the light coming through the tree leaves.

"You know, you can never fully destroy me," Henry said loudly, voice full of emotion. "I'm a nation, and a nation doesn't die unless it's people and culture disappear or become something else. As long as Southern culture is still distinct, as long as the Confederate flag is still flying, as long as my citizens are still rallying for me, I will never truly die. Things will go back to the way they were before, and I'll be the thoughts in your head that you aren't sure are yours. I will always be with you. You can never get rid of me, not unless you get rid of yourself as well."

Alfred plunged the knife into his captive's chest, face furious, yet his movements still precise, exact. Henry gasped as immeasurable pain swept through him. The metal was cold in his chest, and blood flowed into his mouth.

Still, he managed to clench his blood-stained teeth and offer one last smile. Their eyes locked. Gold met blue, fire met ice.

"You aren't killing me, Alfred," Henry promised. "You're turning me into a ghost."


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** I called Kumajirou Nanuq because I've seen lots of people doing that and I really like it, it makes a thousand times more sense. Someone asked about the War of 1812: I didn't put it in because it wouldn't have been a big deal. Alfred genuinely thinks he is saving Mathieu, Mathieu Did Not Ask, Alfred suddenly keeps finding arbitrary reasons to keep the fighting minimal and puts like, no effort into it. It would have been an easily resolved misunderstanding between them, but then after that America and England fight because of poor communication skills and leftover resentment.

 **Edit:** Added a section. It's the second one.

* * *

Alfred stumbled into the cabin with a hollowed look on his face, collapsing into a chair.

"I did it," he said. "I killed him."

Mathieu hesitated. After all this time… It would be important to proceed with caution. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said confusedly. It wasn't the question that was puzzling, it was his own answer.

He had just killed a man. He was only sixteen, and he had just killed a man—a kid—who was arguably a part of himself. Yet he was doing fine. Wasn't killing someone supposed to eat you up inside? The only problem Alfred had with what just happened was that he _knew_ he was supposed to feel guilty, but he just didn't. He had no sympathy for the Southerner.

There were so many things Mathieu could say to that. Almost none of them were things he was willing to give voice to.

"Can we go to Canada now?" Alfred asked.

Mathieu had never been so relieved in his life.

* * *

"Over here!" a worker called, beckoning them to the edge of the woods just before the cliffside. There hung the corpse—a few days old, stinking, and with a trail of dried blood dripping from his chest all the way to his chin.

Cassandra Berkley gave a sputtering sigh of exasperation.

"Idiot," she said coldly. "Why couldn't he have just followed our original plan? Then it wouldn't have mattered if he won or not. Now we have to start all over."

"We were getting so close, too," her partner added mournfully. "Riches beyond our wildest dreams. All gone now. Headquarters will be mad."

"They're always mad," she dismissed her statement. "We just need to figure out a way to spin this."

Other workers cut the rope that was holding the corpse upside down from the tree. They quickly covered it with a blanket, whisking it away.

Consider it a donation to science, if you will.

"Ah! I've got it," her partner's eyes sparkled. "Now they have no reason to be afraid. They're completely unaware they're being hunted. Their guards will be down."

She watched smugly as the team sterilized the scene, removing evidence through careful combing and then cataloging it.

"They will never see us coming."

* * *

They took the train, as a wagon trail was clearly not an option this time. Thank goodness for that new transcontinental railroad. It was saving lives, and making the different states much more involved with each other and connected.

They settled down in Upper Canada rather than Lower, as Alfred refused to live any place that made a point of distinguishing itself as southern, and therefore separate.

He later regretted that, as very few people in Quebec spoke English, and not a single one of them spoke French the way that he did. His Cajun dialect had come back full force, and while Mathieu was used to the difference, others were not. It was pronounced enough to cause so many misunderstandings that he may as well have been a beginner to the language. People were always shocked when he insisted that he had spoken French for years and was fluent, just in a different dialect.

No one believed him, he could tell.

But it didn't really matter. They rarely ran into people, living in a more remote and secluded area. Roughing it at the edge of the arctic, only going into the nearest town once every few months for supplies. They weren't going to draw attention to themselves this time. No one was going to die this time. They were taking precautions.

* * *

Mathieu sat cross-legged in front of a hole in the ice, huddled up in a fur-lined coat that dwarfed him. His fishing line bobbed, and he reeled in the catch, dropping it into a crate of ice beside him before adding fresh bait to the hook.

This was his primary chore, the one that took the most time out his day. Alfred didn't have the patience for it, so he got to clean and hunt when possible.

The running joke was that if their diet had any more fish in it, it would be all they ate. They were constantly trying to find creative ways to prepare it. The day they got sick of fish was the day all food became tasteless.

When he turned around to put another fish in the box, there was a baby polar bear pawing through it.

"Whoa!" he leapt away, scanning his surroundings. Where there was a baby, the mother wouldn't be far behind. But he didn't see anything.

"Hey little guy," Mathieu said to the cub. "Why don't you get away from my fish there? That was gonna be dinner. I sorta need it."

The cub took no notice of him, digging into a large fish and smearing blood and guts across his fur. Mathieu didn't want to force him away from it; if the cub cried, his mother would come running. And he wasn't exactly keen on confronting a protective mother bear.

He crouched down to make himself seem smaller, less intimidating. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began easing the crate away from him. The cub let out a small whine of protest, shuffling closer to get back to his meal.

"Okay, how about this," Mathieu offered. "You can keep the fish you are already eating, so long as you don't touch any of the others."

He lifted the half-chewed fish out of the box, the bear's nubbin teeth still attached, and set it on the snow. The cub continued gnawing on it contentedly as if nothing had happened. Mathieu dragged the box away to where it was in his line of sight but out of the bear's reach.

A few minutes later, the cub started nuzzling his arm, whimpering.

"I'm not giving you any more food," he said. "Your parents will be along any second. Ask _them_ to spoil you."

But looking out across the horizon, there was no other signs of life as far as Mathieu could see. Was the cub an orphan? Where were its parents? It wouldn't survive long without someone to take care of it.

Its parents hadn't come to collect it even by the time he was packing up his fishing gear. Having nowhere else to be, the polar bear followed him across the lake.

"No no no no no. You cannot follow me home. I have to draw the line somewhere," he looked the little bear firmly in the eyes and said, "Stay."

The bear sat down in the snow.

"Good boy," Mathieu nodded, continuing on his way.

The cub immediately started following him again.

This process was repeated five more times before he gave up and let the cub follow him. He noticed it was limping, hopping from one paw to the next, never resting on any of them.

Oh. It wasn't limping. Its little feet were cold.

He hadn't known polar bears' feet could get cold. Weren't they designed specifically to prevent that?

Sighing with exasperation, he gave in and picked up the little bear to carry. The bear nuzzled into his coat, cooing happily.

"You're annoying," he told the little thing. He planted a light kiss on top of its head.

Once at the cabin, the bear managed to weasel his way inside and couldn't be persuaded to leave. He even conned him out of another fish before curling up for a nap in front the fireplace.

Mathieu decided his name was Nanuq.

* * *

Alfred stomped the snow off his boots and dumped a bundle of freshly-chopped wood into the box next to the fireplace. Something shifted in the corner of his eye, and he did a double-take.

"Mattie!" he called. "There is a polar bear in our livingroom!"

He came rushing out of the kitchen, gutting knife still in hand. "Shhh, you're gonna wake him up!"

" _Why_ is there a polar bear in the livingroom?" he asked, much quieter.

"Because he's an orphan and it's cold outside," he explained. "Look, it's just until winter ends. Then he'll be big enough to take care of himself, and there will be plenty of food outside."

"Okay," Alfred shrugged. "So what's the fuzzy buddy's name?"

"Nanuq, and he's already had dinner, don't let him trick you."

* * *

Everything was going great. For once, things were really and truly peaceful. Nothing bad was going on.

Both boys were in a growth spurt again, but it was less extreme than last time. They aged a whopping two whole years. In recent decades, it seemed like they had been aging even slower than before, as if it was leveling out or something.

Mathieu certainly hoped that wasn't the case. He'll be damned if he's supposed to spend the rest of eternity as a teenager. Alfred, however, seemed perfectly content with never growing up.

In only a few years, Canada was granted independence. Mathieu and Alfred celebrated like they had for American independence. They had a huge snowball fight that lasted until their fingers were numb and their lips were blue, and even managed to get all the ingredients together to bake a cake, with frosting and everything.

Apparently they hadn't had that since well before they left Illinois. Funny, they hadn't even noticed until now. Everything had just been so busy.

Within a decade, Canada grew from small, little-known colony to a full-fledged nation with province after province being added. It became a full country almost overnight, and didn't have to shed a drop of blood to do it. Peacefully independent. A revolutionary concept.

All Canada did was ask politely, yet that was far bolder than America had been in the beginning. America had spent years and years campaigning for more rights and being shot down and ignored before even considering independence. They had avoided it and skirted the issue for as long as they could hold out.

Canada was straightforward, blunt. Cut right to the chase. They would like their independence _now_ , if you please.

Britain wasted no time in recognizing the similarities, and the more dangerous differences. They hastily granted Canada's request, declaring themselves to be officially done with anything to do with North America.

All the numerous territories created in the American Civil War went about becoming states, and the ones that seceded were readmitted. They were absolved of all guilt, and even the highest ranking Confederates escaped punishment for treason.

Usually, the Vice President doesn't matter at all. Unless, say, President Lincoln were to be assassinated only five days after the war. Then the Vice President, a pro-slavery southerner, would be in charge of the country and he could veto whatever reconstruction bills he wanted to veto.

Amendments passed. A loophole in phrasing. Slavery by another name. A war hundreds of years in the making had changed nothing beneath the surface.

But pretty much everyone who didn't actually live in the south and see it firsthand was unaware. The news of widespread government corruption certainly never reached Alfred and Mathieu in remote Quebec.

Everything was going great.

Just great.

* * *

"Maaaattie!" Alfred made sure not to let his eyes off the shifty little polar bear in front of him.

"What?" he peered into the room.

"Your creepy weirdo bear _talked_ to me!"

Mathieu rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

"No, I'm serious! He told me to scooch over on the couch and give him more room! He spoke!"

In actuality, Nanuq's wording had been a bit more crude. _Move your fat *ss over, I wanna nap here._

Mathieu stared at him. He actually seemed serious. He really thought that a polar bear had opened his mouth and spoken.

Understanding dawned.

"Ohhh, I see what happened. Alfred, I've told you this before, you can't just put any old plant into a fire and burn it. Some of them emit smoke that has very potent medicinal effects—"

"I am not _hallucinating!_ The bear. Can. Talk!"

"Bears cannot talk. You cannot win this argument. You need to go to bed and sleep off the effects, you should be fine in a few hours."

He stomped his foot. "No they won't, because there are no 'effects' in the first place! Nanuq can talk! Just look at his smug little face!"

Mathieu gripped his arm, resorting to dragging him off to his room. "Come on. You need sleep."

As they passed by him, Nanuq snorted and muttered under his breath, "Loser."

"There! He did it again! _Please_ tell me you heard him!"

He paused. He might have heard Alfred being called a loser. That might have just been his own thoughts, though.

"Nanuq," he said sweetly. "Can you talk?"

"Of course," he replied. Duh. How had they not known?

" _Ha!_ I told you _so!_ " Alfred gloated, quite pleased with himself.

"We have a talking bear," he said simply, silencing him, albeit temporarily.

"Why do the weird things always happen to _us?_ "

* * *

Everything had been going great.

It didn't stay that way.

Britain gave Germany an ultimatum that they rejected. War was declared. If England was going, then Canada had to, too.

There was no draft. The Minister of Militia—Sam Hughes—asked for 25,000 volunteers to go train at a camp near Quebec, and he got 33,000.

The Canadians were itching to go to war, and jumping at the chance to volunteer. They may not have had a choice in whether or not they went to war, but they certainly weren't doing it grudgingly.

Mathieu wanted to sign up.

"The people of Europe need all the help they can get. So many countries are involved; it's bound to get brutal. Some are saying it already is."

"So? Let the Europeans tear each other to shreds! It's _their_ problem. Mattie, there's no reason to get yourself _killed_ for a war you have no stake in."

"I _do_ have a stake in it. My stake is that I want it to end as soon as possible so that less people have to die."

" _You_ don't have to die!"

"I _can't_ die. No matter how bad I get hurt, I'll always heal. The only thing that's going to happen is I'm going to save some Canadian lives. I can take the really bad risks so they don't have to, because it doesn't matter for me."

"You don't know that for sure!" Alfred screamed. "Mathieu. I would kill for you—heck, I _have_ killed for you. Can't you live for me?"

That was it.

"Did it ever occur to you that that was the last thing I would ever want?! Having someone murdered in my name?! I'm a f*cking doctor, Alfred, I save lives, not take them!" he exploded.

Alfred stilled.

"You didn't have to kill that man. Timing or not, it was just words, I could have taken it," he continued more calmly.

"You shouldn't have to. You have more honor than that. You shouldn't have to put up with that kind of disrespect."

Mathieu pursed his lips. Alfred's sense of honor was going to get him killed one day. That, or his pride.

"Europe needs a hero. I'm going to do my part. It's not much, but they need all the help they can get," he said.

"Mattie…"

"Take care of Nanuq."


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N:** I'm going to try to write this war as very differently from the last two major events, but it probably won't turn out that way. I don't like how the Donner Party and Civil War dragged on across so many chapters, and it sounds like no one else liked it either. Besides, I want to push the story forward to when they get discovered and deal with the fallout of that, and that's coming up soon so I want to get on with it. I feel like this story started out pretty good, but now it's just getting boring and too historical and the only emotion I ever write is angst.

 **Warning** for self-loathing (again, I know. My writing has so much variety), description of war that isn't too bad compared to previous chapters, Mathieu and Alfred both having trust issues, and some light death. It sounds bad, but realistically, there's no need to worry.

 **Notice:** I added a section to the last chapter that you should probably go read. I just plain forgot to write it earlier (? me). Normally wouldn't be a big deal, but that section is a pretty major plot point and I have no clue how I forgot it.

* * *

Mathieu was not an idiot. He knew going in that war wasn't easy. But he certainly hadn't expected it to be this hard.

The leaders had no clue what they were doing. They gave questionable orders and the disorganization caused chaos. Hughes insisted that the Canadians use the Canadian-made Ross rifles. Mathieu was lucky if he could get the damn thing to even fire; hoping it would hit what he aimed at was a lost cause.

They learned things the hard way at Ypres.

He threw away that piece-of-crap rifle. Hughes could go jump off a cliff. He'd support Canadian manufacturing when it stopped getting good soldiers killed. Besides, the recession back home couldn't be that bad, could it? Hadn't they had a really good harvest this year?

There was no reason to worry.

At least not about the home front. He was definitely worried about the German war tactics and Prussian battle strategies.

The trenches were about the worst place on earth to be. The mud sucked and tried to hold him down, like the ground was trying to reclaim him. Or at least take a leg. Seems like everybody had trench foot. An inescapable fate.

But outside of the trenches was where things got really bad. Line after line of barbed wire to crawl through. Shells dropping out of nowhere. One second he was on his stomach next to someone, and the next he was on his stomach next to half of someone.

The soldiers were always so amazed when he made it back to the trenches alive. Sometimes he would hide away for hours before coming back to give lost limbs time to regrow. They had no idea.

Lucky Mathieu, they would say. The bullets bounce right off him.

They thought he could walk through hellfire without getting a single burn.

He wished that was how it worked. The bullets go through him, sometimes all the way, but sometimes he has to dig them out while holding a piece of bark between his teeth. He can't afford to scream. An enemy soldier might find him. His own allies might find him. Every time someone found out the truth, it ruined everything and ended in death. He couldn't let that happen.

He died three times, and had countless close calls. If he were normal, infection would have killed him a thousand times over.

Mathieu found that as the war progressed, he got disturbingly good at killing. He was a very skilled fighter. Definitely hadn't been in the beginning, but what better way to learn than through necessity? He had been thrown into the whirlwind mess they called the trenches, but he managed to keep his head up and come out stronger for it.

Was that a good thing? Maybe a few decades ago, he would have answered yes without a doubt, but now he had seen what war was really like. The look in people's eyes when they wouldn't mind getting shot right then. The determination others had when they were fighting for someone back home or in the trenches with them. All the different types of blood-curdling screams there were, and what each one meant.

War was not a high and noble endeavor. War was something that should be avoided at all costs.

Yet still, he knew he had made the right choice coming to Europe. Maybe Alfred thought that if he isolated himself and closed his eyes and clapped his hands over his ears, then the problems of the world wouldn't affect him and could be ignored. But he knew better.

This war was a moral crusade to make the world safe for democracy. It was going to change history.

It was that knowledge that allowed him to keep pushing, even when it seemed impossible. It was that knowledge that allowed him to take the selfless move. It was that knowledge that allowed him to be brave in a very different way from his brother.

Brave in the sense that he was willing to take the risks that the sane ones turned down. Brave in that he volunteered for the assignments others shied away from.

It didn't matter if he died. He didn't care. There were two things that mattered: 1) the Allies win the war, and 2) no one finds out about him and, by extension, Alfred.

He sometimes wondered if he had a limit. Was there a set number of deaths he could have before he just didn't wake back up one day? They say cats have nine lives, but how many did…

Huh. What was he? He knew by now that 'human' wasn't accurate. But what else was there? Some kind of demon? Witch?

A witch would be ironic. He had been forced out of his first home on suspicion of witchcraft. Alfred had been publicly executed on that charge once. It would be fitting.

But neither of them could practice magic, at least as far as they knew. And it would be too cruel a joke for them to get all of the downsides but none of the perks. Besides, witches weren't immortal.

Come to think of it, he didn't know of any myths or legends about creatures anything like him. None of them were even close.

What the f*ck was he?

* * *

When they set out to capture Vimy Ridge, the Canadians all knew it wasn't going to end well.

It took five days.

A mad dash through no-man's land, blood racing, heart thrumming.

Neither of them were happy to run into each other.

The German soldier had ashen blond hair and the saddest blue eyes he had ever seen, hidden beneath a stern expression.

He looked tired to his bones. Just seeing him made Mathieu feel fatigued. He was convinced that if the soldier stopped moving for even a second, exhaustion would take full hold and he would collapse, unable to ever stand again.

The German looked no further than the barrel of Mathieu's gun. There was no anger, no sadness, no horror or accusation. Only resignation in those stormy, airy blue eyes.

So exhausted.

It might have been his imagination, but Mathieu swore he saw a slight nod as the no-doubt most composed man he had ever encountered steeled himself to die with dignity.

He squeezed the trigger.

* * *

The familiar crunch of snow under his boots was so quiet and soft and reassuring. Once in the cabin, he didn't bother with lighting a lantern before flopping onto the worn, creaky, _familiar_ couch exactly where he knew it would be.

A polar bear gave a startled cry.

Oops.

The huge furball wriggled out from underneath him and footsteps padded down the hall, alerted by the noise.

"Nanuq? Is someone here?" Alfred asked blearily. He gasped, and the metal candleholder in his hand clanked loudly to the floor. There was some furious stomping as he put out the small fire that must have started.

"Mattie!" His brother was suddenly squeezing the life out of him with a flying tackle hug, which honestly, he should have expected.

He returned the embrace. "I missed you too."

"Oh my God, you won't believe what happened while you were gone!"

Mathieu laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "You freaking attention whore. I just returned from war; can't things be about me for five minutes?"

"I just returned from war too!"

He pulled back, and his voice turned icy. "What."

"Yeah! It was like you said: Europe needed a hero. I swooped in, and the war was over like that," he snapped his fingers. "Basically, I saved everybody's butts."

"What the f*ck. What were you thinking? I had already volunteered; you didn't have to do it too. There's no sense in _both_ of us getting killed. F*cking h*ll. Whatever the f*ck happened to all the sh*t you gave me over volunteering? Our only major fight ever, and what, you just changed your mind?"

"No," he heard the sound of clothing shifting as Alfred squirmed. "I, uh, I got conscripted."

Conscription. Of course. The Prime Minister had made the bold promise of half a million soldiers from a population of eight million in total. No matter how many men and women enlisted, volunteers had to run out eventually, and then had come the eternally dreaded back-up plan.

Why didn't he get exempted? Practically everyone had been. Who looked at _Alfred_ of all people and saw a potential soldier? He had never taken kindly to being bossed around—to the point where he barely followed the law, much less anybody's orders. He only took guns and danger seriously after someone had offended him to his very core; in a war he didn't care about in a faraway country, he would take life-and-death far too lightly.

He would be the type to take the same dangerous assignments that Mathieu had. The difference was, he would do it for the sake of adventure.

God, Alfred in the Wild West had been bad enough, but him in a _warzone?_

He still sometimes puts his shoes on the wrong feet.

One time his voice had gone all southern and he apologized for cursing after only saying the word 'damn.'

Mathieu was going to find whoever was responsible for that decision and personally throttle them. F*cking sh*t-for-brains *sshole.

Well, maybe that was a bit of an overreaction. It hadn't been their fault after all, not really. They didn't know Alfred. Surely anyone who did would have kept the big oaf as far away from war as possible.

A cold, wet nose nuzzled into Mathieu's palm. He smiled and scratched the polar bear behind the ear, like he always did.

It was good to be back home after being away for so long.

"Who are you?"

Too long.

* * *

Mathieu knew he had to tell him. He knew. This wasn't something you could keep secret. But it just never seemed like the right time. How do you broach the subject? It didn't seem like something to just blurt out. But every minute he stalled only seemed to make it worse.

He should have found a way to say it the first day. But he hadn't wanted to ruin his first night back. Or the day after. And then he couldn't gather up the courage to say it. And then it had been a week and if he said something now, then Alfred would be hurt and offended that he hadn't mentioned it earlier.

Too important to keep secret. What was he thinking?

He could just hear him. The hurt, the indignation in his voice. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? Don't you trust me? I could have helped."

The pity.

Unwanted.

After everything he had been through, all the courage and determination he had shown time and time again in the trenches of the Great War, he did not want to come home to pity. He had fought too hard and too long to be thought of as weak at the end of it.

He just wanted, _needed_ to be respected. He had already sucked it up and done the hard thing and proven himself, dammit.

It was supposed to be easy going now. Instead, he was paying through the nose.

He didn't think he could take it if he was seen as anything less than equal.

There was a chance, however small, that Alfred wouldn't take the news well. A chance that he decided it was too big a burden to bear. A chance that he realized Mathieu would only hold him back. A chance that he decided to take his isolation one step further and leave him choking on his dust.

A chance that Mathieu would be abandoned by his one and only friend.

It didn't matter how slim that chance was. It existed, and Mathieu had terrible luck. He felt like there was an impenetrable fortress wall closing off his throat. Every time he opened his mouth, fear would reel him back in, and the wall would seal shut even tighter than before.

Maybe he would just never mention it, at all, ever. He could make that work. Alfred doesn't need to know.

Unfortunately, Alfred was not an idiot.

Mathieu seemed to have a need to touch everything. His fingers glided across cabinets to reach their handles. His arm always had a red line pressed into it after mealtime, never losing contact with the table. He tried to be subtle about how his knuckles brushed the walls wherever he went. He insisted that everything be kept neat and organized—exactly where it should be.

Alfred almost heard him counting under his breath on the way out to the newly-frozen lake.

He was usually so quiet that he had never properly learned how to whisper, that unnecessary but incredibly vital skill. He was louder than he realized.

Must be his imagination. Must be.

His glasses were smudged and dusty. They haven't been cleaned in a while.

He didn't seem to notice when they fogged up to the point of opacity every time he came in from the cold. Didn't bother him. But then, maybe he was just used to it.

Alfred wasn't.

He kept tripping over Nanuq.

He dropped a fork on the ground and it took him ten minutes to find it again. He didn't realize Alfred was watching. Likely didn't realize he was even there.

Alfred found himself acutely aware of his brother's eyes lately. They seemed just a little duller. Never returned his gaze, stared off into space a lot.

He should ask.

How could he? How can he ask something like that? Suppose he was wrong—it really was all in his head. He would be accusing Mathieu of a whole lot of lying. He would be so offended. "Don't you think I would tell you if I was? I wouldn't keep something like that secret. Don't you trust me?"

And he did. Alfred would not hesitate to put his life in Mathieu's hands. He would never have made it this far without him. Would probably still be a bum on the street, stealing just enough to stay alive because what else was there?

That guy had gotten him through all the toughest times in his life and been his friend for centuries. If they were any more in sync they would be literally reading each other's minds. They freely referred to each other as brothers despite not being related at all.

Of course Alfred trusted him. But at the same time… Mathieu had been known to keep his problems to himself. Alfred knew for a fact that he had had similar symptoms to his _condition_ in 1837 and '38. But he had said nothing. And he basically never got time to mourn Sylvia or recover from the Donner Party fiasco because Alfred needed help with _his_ problems.

Maybe Mathieu would tell him things if he hadn't always been such a selfish, insensitive jerk to him. Alfred couldn't blame the guy for cutting him out. He would do the exact same thing. He deserved it. He had been treating a wonderful person like a doormat for decades. Why Mathieu stuck around was beyond him.

Finally, the breaking point was reached. The last straw found. It couldn't be ignored anymore.

Alfred closed the door and slumped against it.

"Well," he drawled. "Are ya gonna say something?"

Mathieu glanced up to the sound of his voice. "'Bout what?"

There it was. Undeniable.

He chuckled sadly. "I got in a fight again, Mattie. I have a black eye, cut lip. Can't you see it?"

Mathieu's heart skipped a beat.

Sh*t.

"No," he answered simply. What else could he say?

"You're blind, aren't you?"

God.

F*ck confrontation. What had happened to permanently ignoring the problem? That had been a great idea. Why did Alfred have to go and screw it up?

"…yeah."

He sighed heavily. It was almost a relief to finally hear it and have his suspicions confirmed. "I get that you don't want to talk about it, 'cause duh, you didn't even tell me, but should you ever change your mind—"

"No, it's okay. I want to talk about, I just didn't know how to tell you. I was afraid of how you would react, but now you know and there's no point in trying to hide it…"

Afraid of how he would react.

Exactly what Alfred had feared. He trusted Mathieu wholeheartedly, but Mathieu didn't feel the same way about him. Couldn't find it within himself to trust him completely.

It made sense. Alfred was a scary guy. Mathieu had seen him commit murder in cold blood, take the life of someone whose name he didn't even know. Who could ever trust someone like that?

He didn't want to be seen as dangerous. As a threat. It was the last thing he wanted.

The way having someone killed in his name was the last thing Mathieu wanted.

He feared being feared. Almost sounded comical, when you put it that way.

He felt disgusted with himself, but he shook it off, continuing on, "So how'd it happen?"

"German mustard gas."

He winced. "Ouch."

"Yeah. Sometimes it wears off, sometimes it doesn't. I lived, though, so I can't complain."

"Yes you can. Complain away. You are beyond entitled to. If I were in your situation, the whole world would know _exactly_ how I felt about the use of mustard gas."

"Okay," Mathieu said, beginning to get more comfortable with the topic. "You see, the thing is—"

He launched into a heated rant about war tactics that should be illegal, and then the war in general. He had been in it four times longer than Alfred, and had a lot to get off his chest. He had been down in the thick of it, in the trenches, while Alfred had been flitting around up above as an ace pilot. It hadn't been any picnic for him either, but it was certainly a whole lot easier.

Nothing compared to the trenches.

The more he talked, the more the tension in the atmosphere dissipated. He had a lot of things to say. Alfred didn't react negatively to a single one. Just listened to him talk.

They felt lighter than they had in decades.


	23. Chapter 23

Things got better after that. For them, anyway. French and English Canadians were bitterly divided and resentful of each other. The war that had initially united them had only driven the wedge further in the end.

Mathieu saw both sides equally. Alfred, however, was very patriotic very quickly to wherever he happened to be at the moment, and right then, it was Quebec. It was no wonder that he had gotten that black eye.

He had travelled into the city to pick up sugar and some Ontarians had been there, speaking English amongst themselves. Something about the Quebecois being slackers and not doing their fair share for the war effort—he hadn't caught it all.

As both a veteran and a French-Canadian citizen, Alfred had felt obligated to demonstrate his _commitment_ to the war.

Mathieu should see the other guys. All ten of 'em.

"Alfred!" he chastised. "You shouldn't use your full superstrength against humans. It's too great an advantage. You aren't fighting fair when you do that."

"Humans?" he raised an eyebrow. "We're calling other people 'humans' now?"

Mathieu's face heated up and he mumbled, "It's accurate. We're _too_ abnormal. Don't know what we are are, but whatever it is, it's not human."

It was one thing to admit it to yourself, it was another to say it out loud.

Alfred had never really dwelled on it. He just was what he was, you know? 'Normal person' or 'inhuman abomination'—labels like that just weren't important.

There were other labels he applied to himself that were much more important.

'Brother.'

'Friend.'

'Independent.'

'Christian.'

' _Wealthy.'_

Wealthy. He had never been rich before in his life. He and Mathieu had always been either homeless wanderers or subsistence farmers, scraping just enough food out of the earth to get them by until next year, when they would do it again. There had been many a year when leaving the fields to break for lunch had been too impractical—they had neither the food nor the time to spare.

For decades, he had worn clothing littered with worn holes and patches that never matched exactly. He'd worn boots that came apart at the seams and couldn't be replaced, so he would stuff them with brown parcel paper in a futile effort to keep the snow off his toes. He had been the object of sneering and snickering at by Redcoats and high-class British officials during the colonial days.

Eddy had only befriended him because he knew it would infuriate his father to have his son even just be seen with the likes of Alfred.

But now, for the very first time ever, he was on the fortunate side of the poverty line. He had scrimped and saved and gone without things widely considered essential during the Great War, devoting every spare penny to buying Victory Loans. And now those loans were being paid back. With interest.

For the first few years, he had been violently opposed to the war, yeah, but Mathieu was one the soldiers getting shot at on that godforsaken continent. If he had to be there at all, then Alfred was going to do everything he could to make sure he was well-supplied.

Unfortunately, 'everything he could' was limited to conservation and buying Victory Loans.

But now the war was over and he was raking in the cash. Not so much from the Victory Loans being repaid. Everyone had been in need during the war, and he had given money to almost all of their neighbors. Now everybody owed him.

As much as he wanted to save all his money solely for Victory Loans, he hadn't been able to get Mathieu's parting words out of his head. 'Europe needed a hero.' If he could help people, then why didn't he? What was holding him back? He had nothing to lose. Was he really just that selfish?

All Mathieu ever did was give and give and give. Gave his time, his medical knowledge, his attention, his life. Couldn't Alfred imitate that at least a little?

Truth was, he hadn't even tried to get exempted. When he got the conscription notice, it had almost been a relief, a balm on his guilty conscience. He hadn't put up a fight. But given Mathieu's reaction to him being there at all, he definitely shouldn't mention that.

What a double standard. Alfred should have been exempt because it was too dangerous for him, but Mathieu could voluntarily enlist? What's up with that?

Whatever.

At the end of the day, the war had treated him well. He had been taught how to fly a plane. He had been immeasurably relieved to rediscover his ability as a sharpshooter. And he had made a ton of money off of it.

It was great. He lived lavishly, buying whatever bright, shiny things caught his interest. A Model T that he kept in mint condition. A huge apartment in the city where they made a game out of keeping Nanuq a secret from the landlady. Tickets to almost every drive-in movie that came out. Why not? He could afford to enjoy himself.

Mathieu could not. Mathieu was broke as dirt.

A shared bank account used to make sense. A logical pooling of resources into one central location that they could both access. There was no reason to distinguish between Mathieu's money and Alfred's money when both of them were equally poor.

Now things were not so equal. Now most of the money in there had been earned by Alfred and Mathieu felt like a useless, freeloading burden for spending any of it.

It wasn't just that Alfred was suddenly rich. That had been bad enough on its own. No, there needed to be an added level of shame because Mathieu was actually making even less than before.

The odd job in town every now and then just didn't come around anymore. Everyone did things themselves instead of hiring work out. The war debt was putting a strain on everyone.

Alfred always told him that he didn't need to live so frugally, that his self-denial was unnecessary. His money was their money. Separate bank accounts were out of the question. It would be this way even if they didn't have a shared account.

But that didn't change Mathieu's mentality at all. He felt lower than dirt, imposing on Alfred like this. It didn't feel like a symbiotic relationship anymore. It felt like he was a parasite, leeching off of him.

Money had never been a problem before, when neither of them had any to worry about. Poverty had just been a fact of life. No sense fretting over something that was never going to change. They had been homeless before, and if it happened again, then oh well. They always pulled through.

Things had been so different then. No more.

Mathieu was not jealous of Alfred. Not at all. He was felt guilty and indebted, but there was no envy. Alfred's isolation had taken a toll. He frequently got into verbal arguments with himself, then clamped his mouth shut when he realized he was speaking aloud.

He never used to do that. Never. Not even when his personality had been so split that he literally could not exist as one person.

He wasn't more divided now—if anything, he was getting better. But that had bad connotations.

How many decades had that been a symptom that he neglected to tell Mathieu about? Had he always done that, just silently? Had being alone for those years just make him forget that he should hide it?

It was happening less and less, and eventually stopped. But that just meant he had gotten back into the habit of internalizing it.

Mathieu did not envy him. He worried about him.

Eventually, they up and moved to New York. Better economic opportunities. Infinitely better. And in the city, they were close enough to be able to go to some shmancy college. Mathieu took some refresher courses to see if the medical world had learned anything new recently. Besides, people nowadays seemed to want their doctors to "prove" that they weren't quacks, and having a degree to flaunt about was a good way to do that.

He restarted his practice, and had to take on an assistant, someone to describe to him what things looked like and not much else. He found that apprentices were no longer a thing but interns were. Frankly, he had no clue what the difference was.

Alfred was taking classes on things Mathieu had never even heard of and would come home gushing about how amazing ionic charges were and how protons and neutrons held the key to everything. He was an intern at some huge science lab.

He had been steadily getting more and more obsessed with science ever since the start of the 1800s. Even had a rickety telescope and a homemade microscope that managed to survive all their travels in covered wagons across the west. If he didn't know better, Mathieu would think the thing was a piece of trash or scrap, but Alfred insisted that it was just as sharply accurate as anything in the world at the time.

Now he had daily access to much higher quality equipment. But secretly, he still preferred the old wooden microscope he had made when he was 14.

* * *

"I can't believe this happened!" Alfred exclaimed, staring at the bank statement.

"I can. This is what happens when you take out a loan to invest in the stock market, using money you don't have. I warned you about this. I told you not to do the thing, and what'd you do? The thing," Mathieu sipped his coffee, then added, pointedly, "A blind man could have seen this coming."

"Oh my God, Mathieu, it's been ten years already! When are you gonna run out of bad jokes about you being blind?"

"I will _never_ run out of bad jokes," he smirked.

Alfred grinned, rolling his eyes goodnaturedly. After that horrible initial silence, he was glad they had gotten to this point. Terrible puns were so much better than the alternative. Even if they were constant and extremely overused.

* * *

The sudden crash was devastating. Earlier, Alfred had fallen into a lucky job at a research company, and was working his way through the ranks fast enough that he was quickly invaluable. It was a good thing, too; otherwise, they would never have made it.

Mathieu's practice went under. He blamed it entirely on the goddamn American mentality that unless a limb was about to fall off, there was no reason to go to the doctor. If a trip to the ER wasn't needed, then no medical attention was needed at all.

It was like dealing with an entire nation of people just as bad as Alfred about ignoring sickness, and Mathieu was beyond fed up with it.

He had to take a job working in a hospital. Within a few years, he was fired from that too.

See, they didn't care if he was the most skilled surgeon they had or that he could diagnose even the toughest mystery cases. He required an assistant in addition to regular nurses, another person to pay, and other doctors didn't.

It was simply cheaper. Just business, nothing personal.

It wasn't uncommon for a Hooverville to have at least one doctor. No profession was safe. If Mathieu was on his own, he knew for a fact he would have lost the apartment.

H*ll. That was an understatement. They wouldn't have been able to pay the food bill without Alfred's salary, and that knowledge just _killed_ him.

Things were awful for everyone, but Alfred had it better than most.

Then f*cking Europe went to f*cking war again.

And they got split up again.

Mathieu wasn't going to pass up the chance at a military salary. But the military was going to pass up the chance at Mathieu.

Three times. That stung.

The worst part was, he _knew_ they needed him. He knew it. He knew he could save lives if they would only let him.

He knew he was needed.

The only others who seemed to know that were Alfred and Nanuq.

But thankfully, the Red Cross would be hard-pressed to turn away any volunteer, much less an expert surgeon. At least they were sensible.

He was stationed in the Western front in Europe.

Alfred had spent the past decade bumping from one research facility to the next, always moving up. Now he was working for the government on some huge project that consumed every spare minute of his thoughts.

He was being very tight-lipped about it, which was odd. Usually his letters went on for pages about his new discoveries and everything he was learning. Between his overexcitement and the advanced technical jargon, they usually ended up being completely incomprehensible. But six years he had been working on this project, and the only thing Mathieu knew about it was that it had something to do with Manhattan.

That was odd, too. If it was a Manhattan-based project, then what was he doing in the middle of the desert in New Mexico?

* * *

The day of the pretest, all representatives of the Allies save Russia stood around in an observation tower bustling with eager human scientists. Quite a few of the American states had been fully absorbed with some new science project, and now they insisted on showing off their grand new accomplishment to the nations in person.

Frankly, none of the Allies shared their enthusiasm. They were tired. The time difference killed, it was way too early in the morning, and wartime conservation meant there was no coffee available—not that New Mexico or her humans seemed to mind. They were excited to the point of hyperactivity.

This demonstration better be worth it. They all had much better things they could be doing. They could be back home, fighting, leading. They could be anywhere _but_ here in the freezing desert before the sun was even up. Weren't deserts supposed to be warm? What sort of inconvenient nonsense.

Why couldn't they just start mass-producing the weapons and shipping them out already, like they always did? Why all the fuss?

Show-offs.

Alfred sat in front of the control panel, eyes flickering between the various monitoring instruments he was in charge of. Today was a very important day. All their work had led up to this. They would finally discover if they had managed to create a functioning nuclear bomb. And Oppenheimer had especially stressed the importance of impressing the visiting diplomats. Apparently they reported directly to their heads-of-state.

Though he didn't understand why they let a teenager be here on such an important occasion. Technically, he was a teenager too, but at 19, he was also an adult. And one of the world's leading nuclear physicists. The other teenager didn't work here or seem to serve any real purpose. Yet the higher-ups let her hang around and watch. Worse, they seemed to _defer_ to her.

Nepotism at its finest, he concluded. She must be the daughter of some big-shot politician who had probably authorized this whole operation.

And, in the height of unfairness, _she_ is the one who gets to press the big red button.

He had wanted to do that.

"Three… Two… One…"

Tap.

 _BOOM!_

The blast was dazzling. Brilliant. So much bigger and bolder than they had ever dreamed it would be.

No one could have predicted this.

A blinding cloud made out of fire and shaped like a mushroom rose into the sky, reaching the clouds in a tenth of a millisecond and soaring up 40,000 feet high.

A wave of superheated air fanned out, knocking everyone off their feet through sheer force, despite the great distance. It continued even farther, blowing out all windows within a hundred mile radius. The flash was so great, so bright, that it was seen from twice that distance.

The bomb had started out attached to a tower one hundred feet tall. The tower was vaporized. The _ground_ was vaporized. In its place was a half-mile wide crater.

The heat was so intense that the remaining sand melted. The crater was made out of glowing, white-hot glass.

If Alfred hadn't already been on the floor, he would have fallen to it. He felt burns snake up around his left ankle, encircling his shin. The flesh blistered to the point he thought it must be boiling. He bit his lip to keep from screaming, drawing blood in the process. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

The other teenager was in a similar state, screaming her head off, clutching at her stomach in agony. The scientists and diplomats picked themselves up and rushed to her side, but were then unsure how to help.

A few of the diplomats started murmuring reassurances that didn't make sense: "It's okay, it's just the land that's hurt, you're going to be alright, there were no humans in the blast…"

It took far too long for someone to notice Alfred in the chaos.

One of the more battered-looking diplomats rolled over in a wheelchair to come take in the sight of him with a weathered, calculating gaze. He kept glancing back and forth between Alfred's injury and the other teenager's.

The burn was even the same shape. Though in proportion, it appeared to be a lot more devastating for New Mexico than for the human scientist.

Maybe this scientist wasn't quite so human.

"A normal person would be rather perturbed by an injury such as that. One that can't be explained by any rational means," the man said in a British accent, leaning over to show a face mottled with scrapes and bruises. "But if I am guessing correctly, this is by no means the first time something _inexplicable_ has happened to you, is it?"

Alfred only gave him a confused look, wincing as the breeze floated lightly over his burn. What in the world was he talking about?

Either way, the man seemed to come to his own conclusion.

"Well well well, ladies and gents. It appears as though we've found America," the Englishman announced grandiosely. "And here I was thinking that had already been done."


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N:** Sorry if this wasn't the super dramatic and feelsy chapter you guys were hoping for. Don't worry, all good things to those who wait. I've come to realize that this will be the world's longest fic by the time I'm finished with it. And oh my goodness, you guys's reviews! You have no idea how happy I was reading all of your reactions. Thank you all so much. I'm glad you like what I write.

* * *

The whole scene became very eerily quiet. The diplomats and a couple of the higher-ups were staring at Alfred in awe, and his other _normal_ coworkers were whispering amongst themselves, wondering what exactly was going on.

All eyes were on him. Waiting. He didn't know what for; maybe they didn't know either.

The Englishman wheeled closer and spoke soothingly, perhaps seeing his tension. "America, we aren't going to hurt you. I believe we can provide you with answers to some of the questions you have. We are part of… a network, if you will, of nations—"

Alfred knew a bad situation when he saw one. It was time to cut and run.

He bolted over to the railing of the observation tower, scrambling over the side to climb down. But he forgot to account for his bum leg. It gave out beneath him, leaving him dangling in the air.

Horrified gasps ensued, and reluctantly, he let himself be pulled to safety. The second his feet touched the floor, he swung a fist at whoever it was that pulled him up—didn't even really get a good look at the guy. Didn't matter.

Whoever it was got slammed into the wall of people and might have fallen out of the observation tower if they had not caught him.

He kicked and shoved his way around grasping hands that tried to hold him back, landing several good blows and knocking people down.

"Somebody sedate him already!"

Forget climbing. He was going to _jump_ off the tower.

Had to get away, away from these dangerous people. If he braced himself right and landed on his forearms and lower legs, he shouldn't break anything. He would still be able to run.

One. A red-plumed needle went through his shirt and into his arm.

He stumbled getting onto the ledge, and kicked another person back.

Two. A second dart went through his jeans and his fist missed a nearby face. Desperate hands tried to pull him down.

Three. He swayed dangerously on the railing, but he had successfully fended everyone off. No one could get close.

No one could get close enough to prevent it as he swayed too far and fell on the wrong side of the railing.

Down and down and down.

* * *

England was tasked with being the one to explain the situation to the newly-found nation. The others figured that he had the closest cultural, historical, and economic ties to America. Besides a possible blood relation.

He was related to at least 18 of the states, including all of the original ones. It would make sense. Statistically. Historically.

He may have just found a new family member. A son he never knew he had.

Because he had really had a shortage of kids running about the place.

He had no clue what America would be like. The states were so varied. Would he be more influenced by the few small urban ones or the many vast rural ones? The urban states held most of the population and were infinitely more influential, but weren't rural lands by far the majority in America?

Well, going by his looks, rural was definitely winning out in that department. Sandy blond hair and England was pretty sure he had seen blue eyes before he had been tranquilized. If he was representing almost any American city, his coloring most certainly would not be that white. Most of the farming states, however, had an overwhelming majority German heritage.

So rural then.

God, was his son some sort of country bumpkin? He wasn't going to embarrass him at world meetings, was he?

No. Nah. His son? No way. They had found him working as a scientist, hadn't they? Yeah. A nuclear physicist, in fact. On the _Manhattan Project_. He had been heavily involved with administrating that himself, so he knew for a fact they were only employing the best of the best.

No, he was confident that this would be a child he could brag about. Intelligent to an awe-striking degree. Influential—getting to be almost as powerful as his old man as of late. Given his country's absurdly high number of wars despite its age, he should already be a capable and composed military general.

Yes, America would make a refined, supremely qualified second-in-command to help him lead the Allies to victory yet again.

He snapped out of his thoughts as the figure in the hospital bed stirred.

"America?" he asked softly. It was very important to not come across as intimidating. The kid was recovering from falling to his death, after all. And now he was going to get all this new information thrust upon him.

Plus, he had had isolationist policies for almost his entire history. Alone, cut off from other nations, and humans too eventually. He must have had to learn to keep his distance the hard way. As a nation, that bled through to his people, and they kept their distance from the world.

Poor lad must be terribly shy.

What must he have done during all that time alone? England knew ranching had been popular for quite some time. And religion had played the sort of role that if America had been on a different continent in a different era, there would have been reason to fear another Crusade. To be honest, his knowledge of his former colony was fairly limited… but! Before the Revolution, hadn't the colonists given him so much trouble over the cost of paper? Every page had been taxed, so a single book cost a small fortune. Yet still, the ideals of the Enlightenment had gone completely to their heads.

Shy.

Farmkid.

Devoutly religious.

Obsessed with books.

Pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together. England could safely deduce that America had spent his time alone on a farm, reading and praying.

"You!" said nation became fully awake, tensing and scurrying back, dismayed to find that wrist and ankle restraints prevented him from doing so.

"Oh, don't mind those. I doubt you remember—you hardly seemed conscious—but you 'woke up' a few times before this. Flew into this sort of mad frenzy, took out a dozen or so doctors and nurses."

Alfred silently praised his subconscious for trying to break free no matter what. He made the right call even when he didn't realize he was making calls.

"Don't bother trying to break them. Nation cuffs—a Russian invention, incredibly durable, and designed just for people like us," he said. "Though yours had to be specially made. No one had ever broken a pair before you came along."

If he's already done it once, then it shouldn't be too hard to figure out how to do it again.

England sighed as America strained against the cuffs anyway. He would unlock them, but the younger nation had proven multiple times that he would just deck him and try to run away if given the slightest modicum of freedom.

And they couldn't let that happen until he at least heard them out first.

"You might want to stop and listen for a moment. What I'm about to tell you is very important," he hinted.

Come on. It was their first real conversation. He could at least pay attention.

But then, he didn't understand the significance.

Well, he would in a few minutes.

"When you fell off the observation tower, you died. Landed wrong, broke your neck. Yet here you are, fine as can be. You are immortal. This is because you are the physical embodiment of the United States of America. That's why you've lived so long as well."

Alfred gave no reaction.

"There are other nations out there. In every country in the world. We represent our people and advise our governments about their wishes, as well as perform certain political functions. It's not as hard as it sounds. Knowing what your people want should come naturally."

"That makes sense."

"Good! Great. Obviously this existence entails a certain level of responsibility. It's very important to put the wellbeing of your people above all else. If they're doing well, you're doing well. Our health is directed tied to the economy."

"Okay."

"It's not just the people. We also represent the land as well, but that is less influential in regards to personality. Not entirely, but less. Typically, we behave as the epitome of someone of our culture."

"Hmm."

"So…," England paused. This whole thing was coming out awkwardly. No one had ever had to explain nationhood to another before. They usually grew up knowing it, imitating parents and learning by example. There was no protocol here. He had no clue if he was clarifying matters or only confusing him more. "What questions do you have?"

Alfred shrugged a shoulder. "None."

"What?"

"I don't have any questions," he said. "Nations, duties, economy, immortal. I think you covered everything. I get it."

"Seriously? No questions?" England asked, agitation rising. "I just told you you aren't human, and you aren't fazed one bit?"

"I sorta already knew that part."

"Well, what about history? Nations aren't solitary creatures, you know. You have a family. You might want to—oh, I don't know— _meet them?!"_

"Nah, I'm good."

England choked on air, the vein in his forehead throbbing prominently. _"You're good?!"_

Maybe he had gone too far. "Well, maybe later. I'd like to get some sleep first, ya know? I'm sorta tired."

"Oh. Oh! Of course! You're tired," he said, realizing how foolish it had been to tell him right then. The poor lad had just died, for Christ's sake.

No wonder he was so nonchalant. He probably wasn't processing it at all.

Satisfied with that explanation, England wheeled himself out of the hospital room, warmly telling the other nation to make sure he got some well-deserved rest.

Alfred counted to 500 after the door latched before springing into action.

Ugh, it had seemed like he had to sell his soul to the devil to get the man to leave.

Yeah yeah, he believed every word without proof, all of that totally made sense, he agreed to everything, nope no questions, no need to prolong this conversation— _just get out and leave him alone already._

Alfred pulled on his wrist cuffs slowly, trying to minimize the horrific, grinding screech the tearing metal bars made before giving up and snapping them in one fluid motion.

The cuffs may be basically indestructible, but the cast-iron bed itself wasn't. They likely hadn't considered that possibility. After all, it would take an unnaturally supreme feat of strength to be able to break the bars instead of his wrists.

Perfect. He found a bag with his clothes in it and slipped out of the gown and into those. His white lab coat was ever so slightly different from the typical hospital one, but close enough that he could pass as just another doctor so long as no one looked too close. The cuffs on his ankles were completely hidden, and he tugged his sleeves down. It would take less than five minutes to walk out the door, all he had to do was keep the unattached cuffs on his wrists hidden until then.

He strode out of the room feeling pretty pleased with himself. No one could beat him. No one. Not witch hunters, not overly-interested investigators, not Redcoats, not cannibals, not even Henry, and certainly not that kooky English dude.

He was Alfred F. Jones, adventurer extraordinaire. Yeah, now that he was outside, he didn't exactly know what city he was in, but that didn't matter. He would find his way. He would land on his feet. He always did.

The world had tried its best to take him down time and time again, to no effect. There was nothing he couldn't bounce back from. Fate had taken its best shot, but in the end, he was simply too amazing to be held back by _anything_ , no matter what.

An East Asian man in his mid-thirties did a double take upon passing him in the street, long ponytail whipping over his shoulder. He gave a huffy, disgusted sigh as he grabbed Alfred by the ear and pulled him in the opposite direction, back to the hospital.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N:** Oh my God, you guys have given me such a massive influx of reviews these past two chapters! You have no idea how kind that is; thank you all so much. You're really keeping me motivated. I actually had this chapter written a long time ago but didn't post it then because I wanted to post it simultaneously with the next one, as not much happens and it leaves a lot of unanswered questions. Anyway, thanks again so much for the reviews! Enjoy!

 **Warning** for violence and (technically) self-harm.

* * *

Rapid chatter and the smell of antiseptic washed over Mathieu as he entered the hospital.

A strong grip latched onto his arm out of nowhere, and a French-accented voice asked, "Really America, how many times are we going to do this?"

Then suddenly he was being led somewhere by someone who was walking far too fast and Mathieu kept tripping and he had no clue if he was about to run into someone or where he was and he was starting to panic—

Hinges squeaked, the air pressure changed. The hands on his arm pulled him through a doorway before coming to a dead stop, and Mathieu collided with a rough silk shirt and gunsmoke-scented hair.

"Mattie! What are you doing here?" Alfred's voice, concerned, indignant, and from across the room.

"Bloody h*ll, there's two of them," a stranger said, sounding awed.

"Mattie! Run! Make a break for it while you can! They've been holding me hostage here for three days now! I can't believe you *ssholes kidnapped my brother too! I'm going to kill y'all!" There was a grating sound of groaning metal that made everybody in the room clench their teeth.

Mathieu bounded over to where he thought Alfred was, knocking into two people and an iron bed frame in the process, making him hiss in a sharp breath. He really needed to buy a cane one of these days.

The painful sound of fist hitting flesh. Alfred's frightened death grip enclosed around his wrist, then… relaxed. And fell away.

"Thanks for that," the voice from earlier said.

To whom? For what?

It was times like this that he genuinely missed being able to see what the f*ck was going on.

But he didn't need vision to be able to recognize what was obviously a hostage situation.

He sensed someone behind him, and whirled around, kneeing them in the groin. Three people cussed, realizing they had merely traded out one combatant for another.

Good. Now he knew where they were standing.

He shoved the doubled-over man away, and he fell on the tiled floor with a thud. Mathieu kept in contact with the hospital bed, leaning against the end of it to give his kick at someone else more power.

Odd. He should have heard stumbling feet after that, not… rolling…?

He swung a closed fist where the third person had been, but hit only air. Sh*t. Where were they?

Behind him, apparently. Bony fingers dug into his shoulder, and Mathieu whirled to fight them off, but then there was a needle in his arm, and his head started swimming…

* * *

"…why am I always the one keeping _your_ kids in line? Isn't that your job? If you aren't capable of controlling children, then don't have them! If you ask me, you two became empires at far too young an age. You weren't ready for the responsibility. Should have waited—"

China's rant about his allies' immaturity was almost enough to make them wish Russia was here so that he would shut up. Russia never put up with China's rants. He always said or did something outrageous when they started up, just to break the monotony, even if it resulted in a fight between the two of them. That man could not stand being bored.

But Russia wasn't there, and if they have their way, he won't be until everything is smoothed over. He had his own reasons to be fighting Germany, and the only reason they were allies is because they have a common goal of taking down a common enemy.

The other Allies didn't trust him in the slightest. They hadn't even told him about the Manhattan Project; he had found that out through his own spies. They most certainly weren't going to inform him of the very sensitive situation of two newly-found personifications.

The two newly-awoken personifications.

Mathieu felt the stiff, crisp sheets of a hospital bed draped over him and the pinch of an IV in his arm.

Great.

"So how'd they get you here in the first place?" Alfred asked him, not caring to acknowledge that 'they' were still in the room.

He knew that anyone who tried to kidnap Mathieu could expect him to come kicking and screaming, fighting until his last breath. It was frankly surprising he hadn't gotten away. He didn't make dumb mistakes like Alfred did. He had been so shocked to find his brother in the same situation as him. Didn't make sense, in his mind.

He had been relying on them not knowing about his brother, being very careful not to give away clues about his existence. Once he realized Alfred was missing, surely he would come rescue him. Mathieu was his ace in the hole, his secret weapon, his—

Mathieu pinched the upper bridge of his nose in exasperation. The other Allies exchanged glances, purely because England made the same long-suffering gesture so many times that they now permanently associated it with him. "Alfred, you are in the hospital. I am your emergency contact. They picked up the phone and dialed."

…his emergency contact.

Oh.

Darn it. Foiled again. Stupid hospitals always ruin everything.

"You guys have a h*lluva lot of explaining to do," Mathieu drawled, now addressing— _accusing_ —the other three people.

"This wouldn't be necessary if you two would stop attacking before you think and just _listen_ for five minutes," a bitter voice hissed.

Mathieu chuckled. "Don't you go all high and mighty on us. I may have thrown the first punch, but I didn't start this. You have been literally holding my brother hostage."

"No! No, we have not!" the voice said, somehow sounding even more embittered. "He only said that because in his twisted logic, forced bed rest is the height of abuse!"

"Keeping me here is not some charitable act when you put me in the hospital in the first place!" Alfred chimed in. "You shot me full of tranq darts until I fell off the observation tower and broke my neck! You killed me!"

"You weren't supposed to fall! We were only trying to sedate you because you were attacking everybody!"

"I wasn't attacking; I was running away!"

"You nearly flung British Columbia right out of the tower!"

"I didn't mean to! That kid weighs about as much as a bundle of toothpicks!"

At this point, Mathieu was yelling out repeatedly for both of them to shut up, but they didn't seem to hear him. Possibly because the Frenchman who had brought him here had now also joined the shouting match, screaming for 'America' to be reasonable and sounding very much unreasonable himself.

Mathieu jumped when a hand clapped onto his shoulder. Why could he never hear this guy coming? He didn't usually have that problem.

"You," the man said. "You are going to fix this. Come."

He unhooked him from the IV and Mathieu knew he was moving and expected him to follow but his footsteps were nearly silent. He didn't hold onto him like the other man had. He was walking way too fast and there was a crowd they would have to weave through.

More embarrassed than he had ever been in his life, Mathieu hung on to his sleeve so he wouldn't get lost, praying to God that the slight tug wouldn't be enough for him to notice. His face felt like it was a thousand degrees.

This was never a problem when Alfred was there. Even before he had been blinded, Alfred was the kind of guy to always be dragging him around excitedly or sling an arm around the shoulders of anyone he was walking with. The transition had been so seamless it may as well have never happened. It had not changed how they interacted in the slightest.

The rest of the world, however, now treated him differently and he had to interact with it differently.

F*ckin' sucked.

* * *

"…most of our duties are very simple. Report to and obey bosses, advise them, review laws and sign a great deal of paperwork. That's everything you need to know. Do you understand?" the stranger asked.

This was the third time he had explained the entire situation to Mathieu. Everything about nations, everything that had happened since the pretest, everything.

America was not going to listen to them no matter what they said. But he seemed to hold his brother in very high esteem. China figured that maybe _he_ could get through to America.

But the teenager—by now China had determined he must be Canada—seemed very reluctant to believe him, despite how the explanation fit everything perfectly.

Leftover distrust from his brother's claim that he had been 'kidnapped.' It was a wonder he listened at all.

No matter how he felt about the… nations, Mathieu could not deny that every word seemed to ring ever truer, clearing up one mystery after another. All his unwanted abilities, his unnaturalness, the gripping fear that pervaded the past and had forced him to be an outcast. There had been a reason for it.

He wasn't some abomination that had never and would never belong, some being that lived in society but could never truly be a part of it. No. He was one of them. He was all of them. They had hated him, and he had hated himself. The people and the personification both being tragically uninformed.

But now he knew.

He wasn't an abomination. He was a nation.

Representative.

Something grand.

"Okay, I think I understand," he said slowly.

Finally! This had taken forever.

"But just in case, explain the whole thing one more time."

China pulled his lips back in a tight smile. "Of course."

* * *

When they got back to the hospital room, they were pleasantly surprised to be able to hear their own thoughts. The three arguing nations had lapsed into terse, angry silence; all of them thoroughly annoyed with the others.

"So Alfred, it turns out these guys are telling the truth," Mathieu said.

He gasped in horror, and pity tinged his voice, "They brainwashed you."

He rolled his eyes. Alfred could never be told anything. He had to be shown.

"Remember that time that you first met me? You immediately dragged me off into the forest and then you pulled a switchblade and—"

"Oh my God!"

"What sort of colonies were you two running?!"

"—sliced into your arm with it? And then I did the same thing?"

"Yeah, so?" Alfred asked.

"What the h*ll, is shanking yourself some sort of customary American greeting or something?"

Wordlessly, Mathieu took out his pocketknife and set it firmly on the hospital bed. Understanding clicked. Alfred held the blade over the back of his arm.

The moment of truth.

He pressed down and across. Blood welled up, and he wiped it away to reveal the cut closing itself, cells repairing instantaneously.

"You guys insist that we're alike?" he gave the knife handle first to France, the nation with which he felt most comfortable doing so, as China appeared to be almost twice his age and England really didn't look like he needed _more_ injuries. "Prove it."

Ooooooohhh.

Right.

The scientist requires proof.

Rolling his eyes, France sighed dramatically and repeated the same process America just had. The light cut was gone in seconds.

Alfred paled. This whole time, they had been telling the truth. He was like them. Except they had all the answers.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N:** Warning for mass murder.

* * *

The second the other Allies finally deemed Alfred to be fully healed, it was straight from the hospital to the warzone.

Alfred was so grateful to be able to leave that place. They had had to change how they were restraining him after China had hauled him back by his ear, the teenage nation pulled down to his elder's height and repeating "Ow ow ow ow ow ow" the entire time.

They realized that America would through any bed that wasn't entirely made of nation cuff material—a secret formula the nations had long ago agreed they should never know of and was passed between bosses—but also he could just theoretically lift up the entire bed and walk out, if determined enough. A room fully made of the stuff could contain him, but that would be far too costly and time-consuming to produce for such a temporary arrangement.

In the end, they settled on a system of constant supervision and an adjustable morphine drip that they had control of. The threat was enough to ensure they rarely had to use it. They all found the whole thing utterly distasteful and were mildly disgusted with themselves, but it had been the only option.

Necessary.

Being nations meant things had to change.

Mathieu was now not just allowed in the military— _his_ military—he was a general in it. He was included in war council meetings they had underground in Britain, meeting heads-of-state and having them _listen_ to him.

He had certainly never seen this coming. Never seen this future for himself. It reminded him of when he little, bouncing between all those orphanages. There would always be those kids there that would insist their birthparents were royalty, and once they found them, they would live the rest of their days in the lap of luxury. They would be beloved, pampered, exalted by all their citizens.

Mathieu had always scoffed at the idea of that ever happening to anyone, but he let them think what they would.

But then it really happened. When they got to the bunker, England started giving rapid-fire orders to all those around him, and _everyone_ hurried to obey. He was the dominant superpower. King of the world, and everyone knew it.

The king had a small army of colonies at his command, but there were two that now kept sidelining his attention.

All hail the return of the long-lost princes.

Alfred was immediately taken aback by just how _beaten up_ the other nations looked. None of them had escaped getting at least a couple bruises and scrapes. Casts and dirtied wrappings decorated them. One seemed to be legitimately dead, but given how the others weren't reacting to the 'corpse,' apparently not.

In general, they all appeared to have been run over by several buses on the way there.

"Attention!" England barked. All eyes snapped down to the small man in the wheelchair. "It has recently come to our notice that we were wrong in the assumption that there is no national personification for the United States of America nor the Dominion of Canada. In light of this, they have now agreed to assume their roles as nations and the previous system of cycling out states and provinces has been disbanded."

"So you're saying we never have to deal with the states again?" South Africa asked, eyes lighting up.

"Not individually, anyway," England answered.

"Hallelujah," Brazil muttered.

Russia's eyes narrowed. "And how long have you three been aware of this development?"

"Only since this morning," France replied smoothly.

"Oh really? What were you doing this morning that tipped you off to the presence of two nations, after centuries of ignorance? It takes a good deal of concentration to sense whether someone is a nation or not; surely you do not exert such power on every passing human?" He asked pleasantly, smiling with false innocence. A show, a hoax. Underneath was accusation and suspicion, thinly veiled for the sake of diplomacy.

"Why so skeptical of your own allies, Russia? We're all on the same side here," China murmured.

"I am merely curious," he said, not missing a beat.

"We found them on the Western Front when a shell exploded right before their feet and France saw them stand up and walk it off, alive," England said.

"What a remarkable coincidence," he said dryly. "Of all the millions of soldiers across thousands of battlefields, you just happen to be watching the only two immortal ones at the exact second when that little detail could be noticed. Unbelievable."

"Isn't it just?" England sneered.

The tension in the air was so thick, it couldn't have been cut with a knife. Mathieu and Alfred had been briefed earlier on the 'lie to Russia' situation, but they hadn't expected it to go this badly. It was just a little white lie to keep the guy's feelings from being hurt when he realized he had been kept out of the loop, right? The others just hadn't had time to spare earlier, right?

When Mathieu and Alfred had asked why it mattered so much, why they couldn't just tell the truth, England had pulled them aside, lowered his voice and told them, "The enemy of your enemy is not necessarily your friend. Sometimes they are just not the biggest target at the moment. Remember, a nation has no permanent friends or enemies, only interests."

Was that how they were supposed to think of the other nations, the people they were meeting? As not potential buddies, but rather dangerous foreign agents? Was that how they expected them to think of each other? Because they weren't going to do that, nuh-uh, no way. They may live in a crazy world of spies and politics, but that didn't mean they had to act like it.

"This is good news, people," England said. "America is going to win the war for us, aren't you, lad? Why don't you show your allies exactly what it is you can do?"

And with that, he thrust a heavy metal chair into the startled nation's arms, nodding encouragement.

"Uhh… So what do you want me to do with this? Like, sit in it, er…?"

China, France, and England had thought it was obvious. Did he not realize that his abilities were unusual even by their standards? He can twist metal with his bare hands, and he honestly thinks so little of it?

"Bend it." It had seemed so obvious.

Feeling dumb, Alfred twisted the thick bars of the chair into curls, as if the whole thing had been fried with heat. The room was dead silent, watching with morbid fascination.

Because they knew a chair wouldn't be the last thing he would be asked to break.

Australia was the first to break the silence with a disheartened little laugh. "You three didn't bring back new nations," he said. "You brought back a freaking weapon."

* * *

England told him over and over that it was _his_ decision. No one was going to put pressure on him one way or the other, not any military leaders, not even the President. They had all been warned off, and England can be very persuasive when he tries. And all their other allies who knew about it were politically obligated to pretend they didn't or else cause an international incident.

He wished he could ask Mathieu what he should do, but classified meant classified. That was nothing new.

Alfred decided that, immortal or not, the stress was going to give him a young death.

But at least no one was pressuring him, right? This was his decision. No one was telling him what to do. It was all on him.

He had no clue what to do. And he couldn't even get any advice, which, frankly, was probably a good thing because if the first person he had asked had told him to invade Russia in the winter, he would have done it just so he wouldn't have to think.

But England had put the fear of God into the entire Whitehouse staff. No one even said the word 'war' when he was in earshot.

His decision.

However.

It was plenty clear exactly what decision was the practical one to make, for a number of reasons. America had yet to realize this.

They had been in this war far longer than him and had endured so much pain and suffering because of it. He had the power to end all that, to end the tyranny, in an instant.

They could only hope he came to the correct conclusion on his own.

China had expressed that perhaps Canada held more sway over his twin than was appropriate during a time of war. He really brought out the best in him. America was prone to try to imitate his kindness and pacifism, admiring him greatly. It usually didn't turn out well, but he tried.

Unseemly.

What good is a weapon that doesn't fire? One that can't be used?

It wasn't that Canada was a bad influence, per se—just an extraordinarily unhelpful one.

France arranged for strategically scheduled bonding time with his former colony. They had quite a lot of catching up to do, and France was eager to get to know _his_ son who was not related to England in any way, being America's twin meant nothing, how _dare_ England say otherwise?

Another convenient way to occupy Canada's time was to introduce him to his colonial siblings. The North Americans had been so shocked to learn they weren't alone, and on top of that they had parents, and even siblings—a family, a huge family, in fact.

America had gotten overexcited at the news, basically jumping out of his skin in the bunker room. "This is so amazing! Australia, bro, we haaave to go surfing after this war is over. How many other siblings do I have? Do I have any sisters? Why didn't you tell me this like, last week? This is great!"

Russia's head had snapped up at the passing comment. His face was coldly impassive. "Don't take it personal, America. Apparently you aren't the only one they've been withholding important information from for the past week."

Russia had stormed out, and if looks could kill, all the remaining Allies would have murdered America many times over.

He was completely unqualified for this; why do nations have so much responsibility? Do the others know how to make these sort of decisions? Do they know how to run a war, where to draw the line, what measures are necessary? How?

Experience. That was it, wasn't it? They all had hundreds if not thousands of years of practice doing this sort of thing, while Alfred had spent 300 years basically goofing off.

He felt like a dumb, inexperienced kid playing pretend at keeping up with these ancient warriors.

He had never thought of himself as dumb until he met the other nations and realized just how much he didn't know.

China's idea of 'recent' was a time span longer than his life. His former friends existed now only in history books and his sketchy memory. He knew embarrassing stories about people's parents and grandparents. He had been alive since before books were invented.

Someone had casually mentioned something about Canada and America being twins and they had tried to correct them; no, that couldn't be, Mathieu was three years older.

France waved a hand dismissively at that. "Are not years like mere minutes to our kind? Of course you are twins," he said flippantly.

Years were minutes.

Decades were days.

They were children.

Alfred was a child about to make a decision that would change the world. He felt so young and stupid and was sure anyone else would make a better choice, but it wasn't their decision, was it?

With trembling fingers, he typed in the code. He didn't want to press the big red button this time. He knew what would happen this time. It wasn't just sand this time.

 _Press._

* * *

Mathieu froze up completely when he heard the report crackling through the radio.

For about two seconds.

He raced to the apartment in a flurried frenzy. Thoughts flew through his head too fast to even process them.

He flung the door open and barged into the apartment, expecting the worst, expecting chaos and screaming people and likely tears or violence.

He hadn't expected Alfred to be alone in this action.

He hadn't anticipated him to be sitting cross-legged on the floor, expression neutral, a stainless steel briefcase overflowing with wires in front of him.

He wasn't prepared for silence.

He knew he was there—he could hear him breathing.

"…Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you do it?" he asked.

An out. He was hoping almost desperately to hear Alfred say no, he'd had nothing to do with it, it had been the government, he had only found out the same way Mathieu had, or better, he had tried to stop them.

Just please say no.

"Of course I did it. I'm the nation. That's the sort of call we have to make," he said. His voice was the low, dark growl that Mathieu had only ever heard him use in the moments before a gunfight.

"You… murdered— _slaughtered_ all those people… Oh my God, oh my God, do you have any idea what you've just done?!"

"I know exactly what I've just done. I've ended this goddamn war for good and saved everybody's butts. I am a hero."

"You are a killer! How could you possibly think this was an okay thing to do?!"

"How's it any different from a fire bomb raid? No one complains about those," he argued. "This is going to end the war. I'm saving people's lives. Just like you do, Mattie. I am a hero just like you."

Bile rose in Mathieu's throat.

" _No_ ," he turned on his heel and fled towards the door.

The newly-installed phone rang, trilling loudly, and Alfred was torn between rushing to it or to Mathieu.

The telephone was the better choice.

"Mathieu, just wait one second! This was a one-time thing! It's never going to happen again. They're calling _right now_ to tell me that Japan has surrendered! Just listen! It's all gonna be worth it!"

He slammed the receiver to his ear, fingers denting it in his haste. Mathieu was halfway out the open door, disgust and rage just barely held in check.

The operator put Alfred through and every second was an eternity. His foot impatiently tapped out a beat almost as fast as his heart rate.

Even from across the room, Mathieu was able to pick out key words of the President's message.

Alfred kept saying that couldn't be right. He yelled at the statistics, at the President, at the entire population of Japan. He was screaming at his boss to stop lying to him. If any of that were true, then they _had_ to have surrendered.

His screaming became less coherent and the words grew jumbled up, anger turning into mounting horror and hysteria. Mathieu stepped back inside and closed the door. In a few minutes, he had to wave off the police officers who had been called by five different concerned neighbors.

The telephone line had gone dead a while ago and he wasn't sure who Alfred thought he was screaming at; he wasn't even holding the phone anymore, having sunk to the floor, hands clapped over his ears. Even he didn't want to hear himself.

It was a good thing the walls and choppiness of his speech prevented him from being easily understood. Mathieu would never have been able to explain away his brother screeching that once hadn't been enough, he was going to have to kill them all _again_.

Japan refused surrender.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N:** Alright so the only reason I didn't delete this with the rest of my old fics a while back is because it's much longer than the others were and I've invested waaaay too much time into it to ever get rid of it. And then it bugged me that I had left it unfinished, so I guess here's an update, half a year later than they usually are.

I'm going to finish this fic out one way or another, but don't expect frequent updates or whatever. Sorry if you were really into it, I guess?

* * *

"Is my lanyard on right?" Mathieu asked, pausing before the door to the meeting room.

"Yeah," Alfred glanced at the nametag, adjusting his own. He peered through the small plat-glass window to the room where most of the nations were already seated. "That's funny. We're the only ones wearing them. I thought China said they were required?"

"Yeah, required for _us._ The others can't tell us apart."

When they walked in, they weren't really quite sure what to expect from their first world meeting. Except that 'world' meeting would be an inaccurate term. It was really just going to be all members of the Allies and Axis hashing out postwar arrangements, which had already been decided at previous conferences and at the dictation of bosses. Now it was just time for the nations to determine what that meant in more _humanized_ terms.

It was the first time they met any of the Axis.

It wasn't hard to guess who was who, for the most part.

A blond, square-jawed man looked like every bad thing that had ever happened in world history had hurt him personally. He seemed to carry the weight of millions on his shoulders. The huge bags under his eyes seemed especially dark against his pallid skin, nearly translucent with unhealthiness. He stared down at the table, unresponsive to everything around him, utterly defeated. An albino man seated next to him glanced sharply at his every twitch, hovering with hawk-like intensity, acutely aware and concerned of everything.

Two Italians were in a similar situation of stark contrast. One had the expression of bitter solemnity that was only appropriate; the other was openly smiling. Smiling that the war was over, smiling that they had all survived, smiling because his friends might fully break if he didn't.

Idiot. Didn't he know that those who been defeated were supposed to look it? It was common decency. Let the winners gloat, for pete's sake.

Japan was the worst though.

He was horrifically emaciated, and bleeding from seemingly everywhere. The hair on the top of his head was thinned. His eyes were bloodshot and an eerie, almost glowing blue.

Radiation poisoning.

None of the scientists could have predicted it. A bomb that could kill long after the fact was completely unprecedented. If the blast left you uninjured, then you were home free. That was how it had been in every war and every battle for all of history.

Then America came stumbling along and changed how the world worked.

He had crossed the line. He could see it now, in Japan's unnatural, bleeding eyes and the composure of a soldier who couldn't quite hide his pain. This was what he had done to millions of people, _twice._ And it was staring him in the face.

"Who's going to conduct the meeting? Can't be Germany."

"Defer to the superpower."

England drew a breath, preparing to speak, but Russia cut him off. "I do not believe that title applies to _you_ anymore, England, not in your current state. I am the only nation present with both atomic weaponry and experience officiating these affairs. As such, I am in charge now."

Several other nations in the room tensed. Alfred furrowed his brows. If the others expected trouble, then he should too.

Russia continued. "Germany is to be divided into four sections. France, England, America, and I will each govern one. As a courtesy, I will permit Germany and Prussia to live with me during this period."

The albino looked like he had been slapped, panicked eyes searching for someone to meet them. If possible, the blond at his side sunk even lower into himself.

"No," Prussia said, almost subconsciously, almost inaudible.

Almost.

"No?" Russia faced him, faking polite confusion.

He swallowed. "No. Take me if you have to, but leave my brother alone."

Germany stirred as if coming out of a daze. "No, Gilbert, don't—"

"My offer to you was a kindness. You should be more grateful. No one else is willing to support you after this," Russia said. "You're lucky we didn't kill you. Nations have been dissolved for less. _Empires_ have fallen for less."

"To live under your rule would be a death sentence anyway," he said hollowly.

Russia smiled. It was empty, and didn't reach his eyes. "So be it."

Alfred stared down at his hands in his lap. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. They made it sound like death was cheap. A thing that is doled out like military rations. They were going to kill the two Germans. The man he had killed twice was sitting across the table from him, bleeding out of his pores, looking as undead as a nightmare. No one was talking. No one was looking at each other. They were discussing the fate of whole countries, and no one was looking at each other.

"I will," Mathieu said casually.

He wasn't wearing his name tag. When had he taken it off?

"You will what?" asked France.

"I'll take him in. Both of them, why not? You said no one would be willing to support them, but that's not true. I would. I just met these guys, don't even know their real names; I don't have any grudge against them. I could treat them fairly and without bias. It's what's best for everybody."

Alfred didn't know what his play was, but he followed his lead and subtly removed his lanyard.

"America, as kind as that is, it is _very foolish_ to trust strangers so completely. You don't know these men. You don't know what they are capable of," England warned.

"I know that overly harsh punishment is what got us here in the first place. I won't be stupid. Full demilitarization will happen, I'll monitor them very closely, they won't _blink_ without my say-so. There's been a lot of extremism going around lately. Maybe what we need is a happy medium," Mathieu said.

"Who are you to tell us our problems and order us around on your first day?" Russia asked.

"Well, uh, I'm…," Oh God, what was he thinking trying to take control like that? This wasn't him. He wasn't bold. Everybody was watching him now. Oh God. He had to say something.

Anything. Any words would do right now.

 _Why wasn't he saying anything?_

There was at least a billion people all watching him flounder right now. This was the longest minute in the entire history of everything. Even Alfred was holding his tongue for some reason. He wanted so badly to be able to see why.

"You aren't the only new superpower in the room, Russia. You could stand to remember your place," France bit coldly.

France was a godsend and the greatest person to ever walk the Earth.

Mathieu folded his arms, trying to look imposing. "The German personifications will come live with me back in the States. We don't want a repeat of Versailles."

Russia leaned forward. "I believe your language has a saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Let us not be fooled a third time. It is not a stroke of genius on your part to think of letting the flesh-eating monster back on the street with just a slap on the wrist, thinking maybe he's learned his lesson now. My people have suffered more than any others in both these wars. I will do whatever it takes to ensure there isn't a third."

"Really? That's your goal? Because here I was, thinking we were _trying_ to start World War III," England said dryly.

"A capitalist system of reconstruction would do just that. Communism offers equality. It would be good for the people's morale. Desperation and fear is why people turn to fascist leaders, we must work to prevent that," China said. "Let's all remember that Hitler was anti-communism."

"Oh, are you bloody kidding me with this right now? You kn—"

"I am not kidding. You have a selective memory and teach a twisted version of history."

"Ha! This, coming from _you_ of all people—"

"Both of you are biased hypo—"

"Enough!" Canada yelled. His voice rang through the hall. He flushed red.

He hadn't been expecting to be _that_ loud.

"Uuhm, how about a compromise? One will live with a communist country, and one with a capitalist. They're going to be reunited soon anyway. That's the end goal here. So why not try out both systems and see which works best?" Words tumbled out in a rapid murmur, but in the sudden silence it was more than enough.

Prussia nodded, resigned. "I will go with the communist country. China?"

He shook his head. "I have more pressing business closer to home that needs taken care of."

"So we're back where we started then. East Germany is mine," Russia said.

"Gilbert…"

"Relax, West, I'll be fine. Your big bro's been through worse," he said with a confident grin. Germany frowned.

"Who will West Germany live with then?" Russia asked.

France studied his nails intently. England shuffled his crutches around and adjusted his sling. Alfred stared at his hands in his lap, too stunned and afraid of making the wrong move to do anything.

Mathieu shook his head at the lack of response. "My offer still stands. West Germany, if you want, we'd be glad to have you come live with us."

"Us?" China asked.

"Oh, me and A… Canada are roommates," Mathieu said.

He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't even know you were a nation and you already have an underling?"

"What—"

"Excuse me," Japan muttered, rushing to the door, clutching his stomach and trying to pass it off as a bow.

At the questioning glances, Romano sighed. "He's going to go vomit. He's been doing it every twenty minutes. I'm surprised he held out this long."

Alfred froze in his seat.

People started to rise. Apparently the meeting was over. Or at least, whatever else they had to discuss could just as easily be summed up in a letter. There would be no more debating today.

"You overstepped yourself today, America. You know nothing about what it means to be a nation. Anyone else would have been tried as war criminal for using that bomb. You got lucky. You chose the winning side," Russia paused on his way out. "Beginner's luck only lasts so long."

Canada held his gaze steady.

"West! Take care of yourself! Don't do anything stupid! It wasn't your fault, you couldn't have known—if anything it was mine! You better be healthy as a horse the next time I see you, or I swear, I'll ground you're a*s into the next millennium! I lov—"

Russia clicked the door shut behind them.

* * *

Alfred slammed the door to the apartment open, running shaking fingers through his hair. Mathieu held it open politely for Germany.

"That was bad," Alfred said.

"It could have gone worse," Mathieu said. "Why weren't you talking? I coulda used some help back there, you know."

He whirled around, eyes enormous, manic. "Were you _there?_ They were talking about killing that one guy, really killing him! _And he represents a whole nation of people!_ Russia threatened you! Japan looked like something out of a horror movie! And _I_ did that to him! _Twice!"_

He paced the small room quickly, hands pressed against his temple. "I _killed_ that man. I killed his people. I know what those bombs feel like. And the pretest only hit uninhabited desert; it must have hurt so much worse with people dying too oh god those cities. Cities! Millions of people in them!"

Mathieu spoke gently, "Al, take a deep breath—"

"No! Don't even talk to me Mattie! You don't know what it's like! You don't know what it's like to kill somebody and then sit at the same table as their breathing corpse and look them in the eye! His _eyes,_ oh man, his eyes… All blue when they shouldn't be and filled with blood, looking like he never stopped crying but he wasn't…"

"Um, if I may…," Germany said, startling them. They'd forgotten he was there. "Everybody at that table today has killed each several times over, in various gruesome ways. It's nothing unusual. Japan likely won't even hold it against you, not in the long run. It was an act of war. The only shocking thing you did was unveil a secret weapon. This is just part of what being a nation entails."

Alfred's face lit with barely contained fire. "Then maybe I don't want to be a nation."


End file.
